Falcon
by CleganesGirl
Summary: A Falcon is a bird, too. Fierce, powerful, regal, predator. But still just a little bird. Sandor meets Warrior!Sansa. What would you do if the girl you wanted to protect doesn't need protecting anymore? Disclaimer: Clearly ASOIAF doesn't belong to me. I'm just a young girl playing at writing using another man's pen. All rights to GRRM.
1. Chapter 1

_I should've gone with him_, the girl chided herself. There wasn't a day that passed without that flitting through her mind, but now it occupied her every waking thought. _He would've kept me safe,_ the voice said. She knew who the voice belonged to, but dead girls didn't speak, so she shook her head, hoping to dislodge the cobwebs of her past. Straightening back up from the fire she had been making, she stared into the hearth, seeing his face in the dancing flames. She wanted to whisper his name, to reach out and touch his face, and again she gave her head a small shake. Dead girls don't have memories. _Forget him. _Who she was talking to didn't matter; she didn't even know who she was, anymore. She knew who she used to be. Sansa, her name was. Young, beautiful Sansa with her mothers' red hair and Tully blue eyes. Sansa, whose brothers and sisters still lived. _Little bird._ A tear rolled down her cheek, tracing a visible line of sadness in her otherwise unblemished skin.

After her came Alayne. The dark haired girl; Peter Baelish's bastard daughter. He had been kind to her, no doubt, but beneath his kindness he was always calculating. And underneath his kisses was lust, a desire he had no right to have. _I was his daughter_, the girl thought. _Lies, _the voice yelled. _You are the daughter of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, _Sansa admonished. _It makes no matter; I am an orphan, now. _All three of the girls were, Sansa, Alayne and Nymeria. The name she had adopted now made her smile, despite herself. When the innkeeper asked for her name, she had been thinking about Sansa's little sister, Arya. _Arya-underfoot_ had loved the legend of Nymeria, and the name tumbled out before she could stop herself. For the first week, Nymeria blushed at the mention of her name, reddening at the memory of her stupidity. _Still a Little bird_, she heard him growl. His voice had stayed with her, and some nights she could still taste his kiss on her lips. Blackwater, she remembered. _I should've gone with him._

Nymeria went down the stairs to prepare the common room for breakfast. Sweeping the floor, wiping down the tables and lighting candles, she thought of how lucky she was. Working at the inn wasn't bad, and free room and board was all she needed, though the coppers John thrust into her hands each week were welcome, too. John was the innkeep, an old man, his back hunched over so far he was almost facing the floor and his hands swollen from gout. He was kind enough, though not very talkative, but she sensed he had begun to care for her. He was surprised by her courteous attitude, and when she asked for a job so sweetly, he had no choice but to say yes. _Fool, _Nymeria had thought. It had been a long time since she had been Sansa, or even Alayne. They were long gone, and the cold-hearted girl who had replaced them was neither sweet nor courteous. She had killed men three times the size of John, though she could never imagine hurting him. John was a harmless, and he needed her. She would not let him down. Preparing a breakfast of fried bread and eggs, she hummed a song. Florian and Jonquil, she remembered from her past life. _She never gave him his song_.

She took the eggs out of the water and put them in a bowl. Grabbing a jug of ale, she rushed to the common room, juggling the bread, eggs and ale while dodging John.

"Watch out, Nym. There's a rowdy lot just come in last night. Don't talk to them unless you absolutely 'ave to. And don't take no money from 'em; I already 'ave it," he warned.

John would always repeat the same words, and she would always ignore him. _I know how to take care of myself, _said her smile. _I've killed men for less than a drunken grope,_ said her wink. Pushing into the common room, she set the tower of bread, the bowl of boiled eggs and the jug of ale next to the skins of wine and the cups she had put out earlier. Men were standing around, talking about what some Lord has done this week, or swapping stories about the tourneys they had won, or lost. Mostly lost. She stopped to talk to Betsy, of an age with Nym, who always came to the inn for breakfast, either too busy or lazy to make her own. She was a whore, and was always on the job, eyeing men and winking generously. Nym liked Betsy, and looked forward to seeing her each morning. Betsy was kind, honest and always happy to share juicy tidbits, Nym being past the stage of blushing furiously, as Alayne had done with Randa, at the merest mention of coupling. She was the only person Nym could call a friend, apart from maybe John and Marty, who worked in the stables once a week. As Betsy talked about her customers last night, Nym's eye fell on a man sitting in the far corner of the room, face washed in the shadow of his hood. She didn't know what it was about this man, but he watched as he drank a skin of wine by himself. He ate nothing, but his eyes went everywhere, and finally caught Nym's. She thought she recognised them, but judging from the way he blankly turned away, he must not have known her. Nym hardly knew herself, these days. Her eyes, once perpetually wide and innocent, were always narrowed in distrust, and her face had turned gaunt and, in her opinion, ugly. Sansa was no more, and it was only fitting that Nym look the complete opposite to her.

"...So I says, listen Walder, I says to him, if yer gonna put me arse on fire, yer better pay me in dragons!" Betsy laughed long and loud. Nym smiled to humour her, but her eyes were on the man in the shadows.

_He's about the same size_, she thought. And he would've sat alone, too, never being one to socialise. And he would've covered his face, to hide the scars. _Those scars_, she thought. She missed his face, and though he was nowhere near handsome, he was beautiful to her. _No, he was beautiful to Sansa_, she thought. _He never knew me_. Nym wished he could see her now. _Would he still call me a little bird? _Her hand dropped to her thigh, tracing the outline if the dagger she strapped around her leg. The same on the other leg, and another was hidden in her sleeve. She was just about to leave Betsy to her breakfast when the door was kicked open. Men streamed in, swords drawn. One man brandished a maul, and wore the flayed man sigil of Ramsey Bolton. It might've been him, but Nymeria had only heard his description, which the man standing before her fitted. His eyes stood out to Nym, an icy blue a stark contrast to her own. Though she was sure the small, cruel-eyes man was the Bastard of Bolton, she couldn't have been sure. She remembered stories that had filtered into the Vale an age ago. Of his marriage to her sister, this had turned out to be her childhood friend, Jeyne Pool. Nym looked at the man standing before her, wanting to punish him for what he did to her friend, to Winterfell, to her home. She vaguely admonished herself for thinking it was _her_ home, but she found she didn't care. He had to pay, either way.

"Put your swords away, unless you mean to die with it in your hand" the man yelled. Those who had one had unsheathed their weapon, the others looked around nervously. One man refused to lower his sword, a rusty old thing, and stepped forward, a slight hesitation in his step marring his brave act.

"What is your business here?" he asked. Nymeria shuddered, fearing for John's life. His sword looked as though it had seen more years than him, and its weight pulled at the man's swollen wrist.

The man who might've been Ramsay stepped forward as his men snorted in laughter. Nymeria moved to stand by John's side, and the sniggers stopped instantly. It started as sudden as it had ended, only louder. The men hooted and slapped their thighs in mirth. Only the man in front of her was silent. The laughter dwindled down as he took a step closer, closing the distance between Nymeria and him.

"And what have we here?" he asked menacingly. Nymeria stared him boldly in the eyes, refusing to answer, but John spoke up.

"Touch her and you die, Bastard," he growled. From another man the words might've been a warning, but in John's weak voice, Ramsay took it as an invitation. Reaching out, he pulled her scarf from her head, red hair tumbling over her shoulders, the copper tones shone in the sunlight coming in through the door. Somewhere behind her, she heard an intake of breath. _Be strong, _Nymeria reminded herself. _You are not Sansa!_

"Well, doesn't she have pretty hair? Shame about her figure, though. I suppose she'll have to do, for tonight. Then maybe I'll give you to my men; the Gods know they're in need of cunt!" He laughed, pawing her breast. One of his men spoke up; "M'Lord, I wouldn't mind seeing more of her red hair, though I'm quite bored with the ones on her head" he said, licking his lips. That brought more laughter.

_I am not Sansa, _she reminded herself again, biding her time till she could have her vengeance. Thinking back to those happier times spent with her friend brought her courage. _For Jeyne_, she thought, _whose only fault had been that she was of the North_.

John had had enough, and raised his sword higher, stepped forward but before he could crash it back down into Ramsay's skull, Ramsay had stepped backwards and swinging his maul, brought it down into John's face. John whirled around, spraying blood on Nym before he fell down with a thud. Nymeria screamed, throwing herself to the ground beside John. Sweet, kind John. John who had loved her like a daughter these last years. Tears rolled down her cheek, and with one last kiss on his bloody forehead, Nymeria stood up. She didn't know how long she'd sat with John, but the men were fighting in earnest. She recognised Paul, who'd been here for a week. She saw him cut down by one of Bolton's men. She couldn't see Bolton anywhere. The stranger whose face was still hidden was hacking at men, severing head and arms when she left the common room.

That was when he found her. Rushing through the kitchens, she felt a hand grab her by her arm, roughly pulling her back into the shadows.

"Come for me, have you?" he said, bringing his face close to her own and running has other hand down her waist to the curve of her hip. She was taller than him, yet his menacing presence raised him up a few inches. _For Jeyne, for the North_, Nym thought.

"I doubt anyone has ever come for you, Bastard." Nym replied, straightening her back until she dwarfed him. His eyes grew harder and though he smiled, the tension in his jaw was tight enough to gnaw his teeth to dust. Nym quirked an eyebrow up as she wrenched her arm from his grip. He let go easily enough but then she saw the glint of steel and felt the cold edge of his knife against her and she smiled.

"You really are stupid, Bastard."

"I am stupid? Which one of us has the knife against her throat?" he quipped, but Nym couldn't help but smile her brightest smile. His own grin faltered when she tapped it against the top of his thigh.

"And which one of us is about to lose his cock? Here's a clue, I don't have one." And with that, she plunged the dagger into his groin before stepping back as his own slashed violently at her throat. She laughed; long peals of mirth that wouldn't end as he slid down the wall, the red spot on the front of his breeches growing bigger with every second. He was looking at her with his cruel eyes that had lost their cruelty as the man had lost his manhood. Nym smiled down at him before kicking his dagger out of his hand and crouching down next to him.

"For Jeyne," she said, as she put the edge of her steel against his throat. His eyes widened a fraction at her next words, whether from recognition or fear, Nym didn't know. But she noted the whites of his eyes with satisfaction as she whispered "For the Winterfell," before pulling the knife along his throat.

In the stables she found Betsy, blood running down her face as a man pumped into her, two others pinning her to the ground. A rage overtook Nymeria, and ripping the two daggers from her legs, jumped on top of the man raping her friend and slit his throat, blood gushing over Betsy's face. The other two approached her, without their weapons, and circled around Nym. _Fools,_Nymeria thought. _They should've picked up their weapons. _She made sure not to give anyone of them her back. She was watching, for weakness, for a disability. The man to her left was right-handed, though the other was left-handed. She could tell from the fists they had up, the preferred hand balled in a fist while the other was to block her daggers. She feigned left to the man on her right and when he swung out to punch her, she ducked and sunk the dagger in the exposed right side of his neck, twisting it four good measures. He fell to the ground and the other came rushing at her. She jumped to her right, keeping his left fist far from her reach. He twisted around fast and nimble, faster than Nymeria expected and his large fist connected with her face. The world swam around her, but she made sure to keep her legs steady when all she wanted to do was sit down. He came at her again, but this time she ducked and sunk a dagger into his gut, again twisting. The other dagger sliced through his throat, and he yelled before the blood choked him off. He fell, blood gurgling from his mouth. She listened for his last breath, then stumbled to the corner and sank down. _Betsy_, she remembered with a start. Nym lurched forward, attempting to get back up. The sudden movement made the world swim again, and her eyes lost focus. That's when she saw the figure enter the stables, sword dripping blood... and her world turned black.


	2. Chapter 2

The inn was busy when he walked in. Men were standing around showing off their many accomplishments, and glossing over the failures others were happy to point out to them. The man walked over to a corner table and immediately an old man hobbled over to offer him ale.

"Wine." The man countered, hoping it would be of high quality but painfully aware it would not be. _Not in a shithole like this_, he thought. The old man came back with his wine and picked up the coins put down for him on the table. He offered food, but the man shook his head, hoping the old bugger would get the hint and leave him alone. _I just want to get well and truly drunk_, he thought. Having left the monastery only recently, he felt obligated to himself to drink as much as possible to make up for lost time. _All a man needs is wine. Wine or a woman._ The man grinned to himself as he brought the skin to his lips, looking over it at the busty young woman sitting some tables in front of him. Her dress was cut low, her full breasts hanging over the material, showing her wares with abandon.

Sandor appreciated a brazen whore, especially if they could look him in the face. This one however, could not, and Sandor grunted his disappointment, though if he wanted to, his coin would be just as silver as any. The woman looked up and smiled at someone entering the common room. Sandor thought it would be a man but when she walked into his line of vision, and it was a _she_, he was surprised_. Another whore? _She didn't look like one. Though her dress hugged her skinny figure, it was more like she outgrew the dress rather than an attempt to seduce. She was tall and lithe, her hair demurely hidden underneath some type of scarf she had wrapped around her head. She sat down with the whore and laughed with her about something, swapping stories and chirping at each other about nonsense. _I knew a girl who used to chirp once_, he mused, but quickly abandoned the thought of his Little Bird. The whore said something and laughed loudly while the other girl smiled politely. Suddenly she was looking at him, looking him straight in his steely grey eyes with her own blue ones. He thought he might've recognised her. She looked a little like- _no_. He turned away from her gaze and focused on his depleting wineskin. The Little Bird would never be working in an inn. His little Lady was refined and graceful; nothing like the commoners in this place. _Nothing like me_, he thought, angry at the sadness he felt over that admission. Of course she would want nothing to do with me. She was princess of the North, betrothed to a King; she was to be _Queen_. _How could she lower herself for a dog? _

The door blew open and in walked men bearing steel, all dressed in their armour. Sandor recognised the flayed man sigil of Bolton, and wondered what the Bastard would be doing in the Riverlands. Ever since the Dragon Queen defeated the Lannisters, squashed Stannis' men and freed the North from both Bolton men and the Others, the man himself had been nowhere to be found. Some said she fed him to her black dragon, Drogon, whilst others insisted he had been turned into a wight, before being slain by his wife, Arya Stark. Of course, Sandor knew it wasn't the wolf-bitch he had married, but he was loathe to correct the people who attributed his death to the little she-wolf_. Fierce little thing, even as she left me for dead,_ he thought, remembering how he had begged for the gift of mercy, taunting her with mentions of her sister. His Little Bird. He looked up to find the old innkeep standing before Bolton, arms barely able to raise the rusted old sword he held. _Old fool_, Sandor thought. But when the young woman moved to stand by his side, something tugged at him. The show of kindness, for surely he was not her father, was touching, and Sandor rose to pay close attention to the woman. The men were laughing at something, but when the old man called Bolton a 'bastard' to his face, Sandor didn't know whether to curse him for a fool or proclaim him brave. But then the young woman's scarf was unceremoniously tugged off by the Bastard himself and Sandor took in breath between his teeth. Blood rushed to his ears as thick auburn hair cascaded down her back. He would know that hair anywhere. He didn't realise when the old man was felled but he knew he had to protect her. Protect his Little Bird, like he should've done years ago. _She was older now, but surely she'd need an old dog to protect her, wouldn't she?_

He pulled his sword from the scabbard as the fighting started. Sandor was surrounded by three men, but he cut them down easily enough, only for them to be replaced by five more. The other men at the inn, men who regaled each other with stories of fighting and glory, were cut down as though they were children. A Northerner stood in front of him, almost as tall as Sandor, though his frame was weighed down by both fat and heavy armour. Sandor rushed him, hoping to get it over with as quick as possible, but the man was a strong fighter. They parried for a while, blocking attacks as the other went for the kill. It seemed as though it lasted forever, but soon the other man's movements slowed down a fraction. Just as Sandor saw a clear shot for the rib, his opponents' sword came down on his shoulder, though he lessened the effect by moving before any real damage could be done. Sandor surveyed the carnage in the common room; men were groaning, crying, dead or dying and Sandor stood amidst it all, shoulder throbbing. He looked for her auburn hair, a sickening panic settling heavily in his stomach by her absence. He headed to the back, hoping she had escaped, but the sight of a body in the kitchen stopped him. Did the fighting spread this far? When he moved closer to the dead man, he laughd when he saw his face. The Bastard, killed in some god-forsaken inn! He moved past him, running out towards the stables where he heard shouting. _Little Bird!_ Sandor ran as fast as he could, a sharp pain shooting up his shoulder with ever jolt. The scene when he reached the stables surprised him. Three dead men, a crying whore and... Sansa! He saw her stumble in the corner; look up at him for a moment before her eyes fluttered shut.

The whore shrieked when he entered. "Calm down, I'm not going to hurt you," he said, attempting to shut her up. Her screams transformed into muffled whimpers are he crossed towards Sansa.

"What happened here?" He asked her, surveying the scene again. Sansa's small white hands were covered in blood, and Sandor hoped it wasn't her own.

"N-n-nym, sh-she saved me. She killed 'em. They were going to k-kill me and she killed 'em all!" She stuttered the words out, pointing at Sansa and then at the dead men. Three dead men and Sansa. Bolton must've been her too, then. Sandor would've laughed had she not been out cold. He quickly checked her over, and when no cuts could be found, he inspected the bruise forming on the left side of her face. _That's gonna be a beauty, _he thought, before picking her up and calling for the whore to follow. They made their way back into the inn. The survivors who could, had left by now, and the dying Northmen were quickly put to death by a few stragglers. The inn was quiet with just Sandor, the whore and Sansa, who had yet to awaken.

"What's your name?" He asked her. She looked at him wide-eyed, before mumbling "Betsy, m'Lord". He resisted the urge to tell her off for the title as he needed her full cooperation.

"Betsy, do you know where San- Nym's room is?" She eyed him suspiciously, but when she noticed the robes he wore, a relic from the Quiet Isle, she showed him up to a small room upstairs. He lay Sansa on the bed before gathering her belongings_. I'm taking her back home_, he tried to convince himself, though he knew Winterfell was a lost cause after the Dragon Queen and Jorah Mormont. _Anywhere, I'll take her anywhere as long as she's safe. I'll keep her safe. _He repeated those words to himself as he stuffed a few warm dresses, and shifts into a bag, and when he found leather breeches in her size, and linen shirts, he figured he'd take them for her, too. _So the wolf-cub has finally grown into a she-wolf, _he grinned as he packed another pair of breeches for her.

Downstairs, Betsy was waiting for him.

"Where are you taking her?" She asked, looking down at her lap. Sandor considered telling her the truth, but decided against it.

"Quiet Isle, she needs to see the healer there," he answered hoping she'd take his word for it.

"What should I do?" Sandor was close to telling her she should shut up, but again, he decided against telling her the truth.

"You could try cleaning the place up. Perhaps you could run it, since the previous owner is... indisposed," he offered, gesturing at the old man lying in a pool of his own blood. The girl looked at him and tears pooled in her eyes.

"What ab-b-bout the b-bodies?" She was starting to irritate him with her questions and her constant stuttering, but he gave her the soundest advice he could give.

"Burn them, burn them all."

Wrapping the little bird up in a cloak, he carried her out to the stables, cradling her against his chest like a child. He was enjoying the feel of her body in his hands, and admonished himself for doing so. Slinging her unceremoniously across his horse's back, he climbed on behind her and set out. He wasn't sure where but one thing was certain; the little bird was staying with him.


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of water woke her up. Eyes still slightly out of focus, Nymeria tried to see if she recognised were she was. _No_, she sighed. _Tree's, tree's, bushes and more bloody tree's. _She felt the cold earth beneath her, and a scratchy cloak was thrown over her. She turned to her side, listening to the sound of water. A river or a large stream, she thought, though the splashing meant someone was bathing. She heard a soft neighing and looked to her left, where a big black horse was tied to a tree. There was something familiar about that horse, but most horses looked alike so she put the thought out of her head. Instead she tried to recall what had happened. _The inn, John, Betsey, Bolton, the stranger! _The last thing she remembered was the man in the dark cloak entering the stables. Maybe it was him in the river now. Pushing the heavy cloak off her, she reached for her daggers. Too of them were gone, but the one in her sleeve was where she had left it. Pulling out the dagger, she quietly made her way to the river bank. He was facing away from her, and all she could see was his back. Broad and muscled, his back was hairless and covered in silvery scars, though a nasty cut was still weeping blood near his shoulder. Nym chose a tree and climbed it, perching on one of its branches. Though from her position she lost sight of him, she could hear his every movement, and judged that he would pass underneath her to get back to their make-shift camp. _The lazy bugger didn't even bother to start a fire_, Nym thought. She waited patiently as he scrubbed every inch of his body. He took such a long time, Nymeria had time to braid her hair and clean her teeth with a twig. She was chewing on a green leaf to freshen her mouth when she heard him make his way to the bank. A branch blocked the view of his face but his torso was visible, clear as day. Nym noted the hard muscles of his chest, his shoulders and his flat belly. A dark line if hair ran from his bellybutton to his crotch, which he had kept covered with a cloth he had wrapped around him. His chest was lightly covered in hair, reaching up to his neck, where it blended with his beard. She watched him stride out of the water on long, strong legs and put on his clothes. When he had dressed, he walked in the direction Nym had predicted. _You are not Sansa, _Nym said for courage and just as he passed beneath her, she jumped and landed neatly behind him. Before he could turn around, she had the dagger to his throat, standing on the tip of her toes.

"Who are you and what do you want with me?" Nym demanded in her strongest voice. _You are not Sanza. You are not the little b-_

"Little bird, put your knife down," said a familiar voice. He made no move so Nym dropped the knife from his throat and stepped back, confused. The stranger turned and a familiar face revealed itself.

"The little bird has grown up, has she?" he growled.

And for the second time in a day, Nym's world turned black.

_Dead, Dead, The hound is dead. She was running, low-hanging branches pulling at her hair and scratching her face like fingernails. Run, Alayne. NO, Alayne is dead. Run, San- no, she died a long time ago. Run, girl. You are dead, so run! She stumbled along, the dark sky looming over her. Run , little Cat. Your mother ran so fast when she was a child, run faster! Littlefinger's ghost chased her, snapping at her feet, fingers grasping at her hair. Dead, dead. I'm sorry, father. I didn't mean to. You didn't listen to me, my name isn't Alayne. You should know that, father. Dead, dead. She stepped on a stone, but ran on, her foot throbbing with pain. She didn't stop. Keep running, girl. Dead girls run. The trees laughed at her, ripping at her clothes. The laugh grew louder and echoed off the trees, the ground, it enveloped her till there was no escape. Then came the smell. A sour smell, of wine and hatred, filling her nose. She ran. His voice came next and the trees cackled. Deaaaaad maaan taaalkingg, they mocked. His voice was louder in my ear. Fly, little bird, fly back home. And she flew. But then she was falling. The ground came up to meet her, closer. Fly, girl! Fly, little bird..._

She woke up with a start. Taking deep breaths of air, she could hear her heart thumping loudly. Dead, dead. _No, he isn't, _Nym thought. She looked around her. She was back at the camp, the coarse cloak draped over her, again. Night had fallen and the air was crisp, yet no fire was made to chase away the dark. Nym's throat felt dry and she heaved, her belly rumbling. The sound of water flowing was still audible, so she gathered they hadn't left to make camp elsewhere. _The hound_, she remembered. _Dead, dead._

"Decided to join us, I see," a voice rasped. Nym quickly pushed the cloak off her for the second time that day and reached for her daggers. She found none.

"You won't find any of your knives up your skirt, either. I checked." He laughed and pushed himself off the tree he was leaning against and stood in front of Nym. He was taller, much taller, yet the height difference had decreased.

"I thought you were dead," Nym croaked. The burnt side of his face twitched and he pushed a skin of water to her.

"Drink first, questions later, Little bird." Nym put the skin to her lips and drank. Water trickled down her chin and ran a path to her chest. She saw his eyes follow the water, and interrupted his thoughts.

"Thank you for the water, but I need food. I'm starved," Nym said, pushing the skin back at him. He stared for a moment before turning without a word. He reached into a bag and pulled out some bread and cheese. He took the food and a flask and sat down on her bed, laying their dinner out between them. Nym looked at him uncertainly, and then sank down opposite him. He offered her some bread and sliced the cheese for her, unwilling to give her the knife. _You might've offered me the wine, you greedy bugger. _They sat in silence, Nym eating hungrily and the man drinking heavily. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but didn't offer an explanation. Not a word. Nym wasn't going to talk if he wasn't so she ate and drank the water, and when she was done, sat back and watched him. _It's really him, _she thought. _The hound came back. _He came back_ for me, _she half-wished. He hadn't changed a bit. His face was still horrific, his sword still perpetually coated in another man's blood. He wore all black, as though he was a Brother of the Watch. _Jon_, she thought briefly, before shaking the thought away. The hound still kept his hair long, still combed to the right-side of his face in a desperate attempt to hide his disfigurement. It was 10 minutes, mayhaps less, before he broke the silence.

"I can't make a fire." He said the words without looking at her, and sank back into his thoughts. He stared out into the darkness, his grey eyes burning. Nym decided it was too cold to be stubborn and got up.

"Help me collect some wood, then. The night is cold," she said cheerily, jumping up. Nym's head still hurt but she walked on, anyway. Her bravery lasted for three steps before she sank back down. Large hands lifted her up, cradling her like a child and set her back down on her bed. The smell of wine filled her nose and strangely bringing her comfort and reassurance. Nym desperately reached for him. _Don't go!_

"Stay with me, _Ser_." Nym whispered. For a moment she thought he might protest. _He never did like knights, _she recalled. He hesitated before grabbing her hand in his own, larger one. He lay down next to her, and let her snuggle up to him for warmth.

"Where were you, ser?" Nym asked into the dark night. She felt him tense at the title, but the anger it usually brought forth was missing.

"Dead. And I'm no ser," he added, as if out of habit. Nym sighed her agreement.

"Nor I a lady," she admitted, sadness coating her confession. She felt him give her a squeeze.

"Sleep now, Little Bird."

"Neither am I a little bird, ser," she said, unable to stop telling him of all the things she isn't, anymore. She felt a queer belief that if anyone wouldn't mind her being someone else, it would be the Hound. He chuckled instead.

"You can kill all the men you like. Shit, hold a knife to my throat, even, but you will always be a little bird." Nym bristled, though part of her was pleased. She wanted to be her old self again, she just didn't know how._ Perhaps he can remind me what she was like, _she thought. _His little bird._

For the first time in 6 years, since her father's death, she slept well. The nightmares left her in peace and for once Nym dreamt of her family before the Lannisters ruined their lives. Bran and Rickon played in the snow while Arya, Robb, Jon and Sansa made snowmen, gathering coals and twigs for a face and arms. She even dreamt of her time with Lady, before Joffrey. The hound was in her dreams, too. His white cloak, the handkerchief on the battlements, and even Blackwater. _Especially Blackwater. 'No, little bird, I won't hurt you.' _They spent the night enveloped in each other's warmth, but when Nym woke again the next morning, she was cold and he was gone. _I haven't given him his song._


	4. Chapter 4

He had to leave. Some time during the night, she turned herself around and nestled into the crook of his arm, his other arm flung protectively over her. But she doesn't need protecting. _Except maybe from you, dog_- a voice snarled in his head. He had woken up with her red hair fanned across his shoulder, the smell that was distinctly her and utterly intoxicating filling his lungs right down to his soul. His cock hardened in response, and that's when he made up his mind. He had thought he had changed, that he was deserving to be in her presence, yet he hadn't and he wasn't. He was still the ugly dog he always was, still the blood-thirsty, cruel man he has always been, and the little bird deserved better.

Disengaging her from his arm, he carefully covered her in a blanket and watched her sleep as dawn crept up on him. She looked so fucking beautiful, though. He auburn hair shone even in the dimmed light and her pouty lips looked as inviting as ever. In a moment of madness, Sandor dropped down onto his knees, crouched over till his face was inches from hers and kissed her. A soft brush of the lips, but he felt it on every inch of his body. Reeling, he brushed his lips against hers again, careful to not touch her with the burned side. _Even in her sleep she'll be repulsed, dog. _

He pushed himself up, ignoring the jarring pain in his shoulder from his wound and went to piss against a tree some distance from the sleeping beauty. He watched her as he pissed though, and with cock in hand and the girl in view, there was nothing else to do but give himself a little squeeze. He was disgusted by himself as soon as he did it, even more so as he felt his member growing hard in his hand. He wondered what he would do if she woke, but quickly cleared his head of that thought and gave himself another squeeze_. I'll be leaving her, soon. Best give myself a farewell gift, _he thought as he spread the clear liquid that seeped out across the head of cock. She brought his hand up to his mouth and spat, before bringing the wet hand back down around his throbbing manhood. He was fully erect now, the little bird sighing in her sleep mere feet away. He paused for a moment, allowing her to settle back to sleep, before slowly giving his cock a rub. Up the shaft and down, his thoughts strayed to the feel of her in his arms last night, her round ass pressed against his groin. Sandor groaned as his movements became more jerky, less fluid, and he tried to slow himself down, but his thoughts were stuck on how well she fit against him, as though the Gods had made her to fit in his arms comfortably. He didn't believe in the Gods, Old or New, but the idea was something the Little Bird would've liked her knights to say, so he imagined telling her how great she felt in his arms. How soft her teats were underneath his hands. How her lips were perfect, how well they tasted, too. Yet at the thought of her lips, he wasn't thinking about the curves of her lips, but how they would look wrapped around his cock. His manhood strained at the vision he had of her taking him in her mouth, swirling her tongue around the head and sucking gently as he pumped in and out. Sandor's movements became uncontrollable as he grunted with each thrust of his hips, fucking his hand in earnest at the thought of his little bird performing on him. He came hard, his seed hitting the tree he stood against in long, thick spurts, filling the crevices of the bark and seeping down. Sandor groaned as the last of the sensation left his body feeling rejuvenated, yet disgusted with himself. His eyes shifted to the girl sleeping on her bedroll, an arm casually strewn across her ribs, pushing her breasts up to peak over the top of the neckline of her dress. Sandor felt soiled, and knew he must leave. _If only to protect her from myself_, he thought bitterly as he tucked himself back in.


	5. Chapter 5

Nym was all alone, again. Had she known where she was, she might've made her way back to the inn, but she didn't, so she instinctively struck out North. If she didn't find the inn, she would at least be closer to her home. _Closer to Winterfell. _A part of her wanted to remind herself that it wasn't her home anymore, that she wasn't _that _girl anymore, but she was tired of the lies. Tired of lying to herself. She stopped in her tracks and stood up straight.

"My name is Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell."

Sansa took a deep breath and exhaled in a rush of air. The declaration lifted a weight off her shoulders, and though there was no one and nothing to witness the moment but the trees, Sansa felt content. For the first time in a long time, she felt almost happy. Despite the fact that she didn't know where she was, and that the hound had left her, Sansa took a deep breath and smiled. _I can do this, _she thought. _I AM Sansa Stark, and stronger than they think. Stronger than I think_. Septa Mordane had thought her how to be a lady, and Littlefinger had taught her how to be his baseborn daughter, but nobody had showed her how to be Sansa. _No one except for Nymeria. _As Nym, Sansa had felt free. Free of having to be anything but herself. Sansa Stark, cloaked under a new name. Those years as Nym were happy years, and Sansa didn't regret a minute. She felt bad about Betsy and hoped she had made it out okay, but other than that, and John, she had no sad thoughts occupying her mind. Except for him.

_Why bother helping me escape if you're going to leave me again? _She couldn't tell when exactly he had left but when she woke up this morning with the birds singing happily around her, he was gone. In his place were her three daggers, a bag containing a wheel of cheese, a loaf of bread and a waterskin. He had also left her silver coins, a couple of coppers and hidden in her sleeve, a golden dragon. She was grateful for the provisions, but she would've preferred his company. Not for protection but because she had missed him. The way he called her _Little bird_. The way he showed her his kind heart underneath his gruff exterior. She thought back to the Battle of Blackwater. The kiss. Sansa was surprised to admit that she wished he had kissed her again. She wanted to be with him, by his side as his friend. Or maybe...

Sansa shook her head_. He left me, _she reminded herself. _He left me in the middle of nowhere with nowhere to go and nowhere to go back to. _The anger boiled inside her. She spent the rest of the day walking north, only stopping to rest and keeping sane by counting off the ways she could kill The hound. A stomach wound. Cut his throat. Poison. Asphyxiation. A knife through the heart was her personal favourite. It was almost nighttime when she heard them. She had been walking all day and was contemplating making camp when she heard their horses. Quickly, she climbed a tree and waited.

It wasn't long before she heard voices and soon after that they came into view. Three men on horses, one seemed a little younger than Sansa, maybe 17 or 18 years old. The others were older, but what caught her eye was the horse the rider in the middle sat atop. A beast as black as night. She had just seen that horse yesterday, and was even more surprised to note that the rider wasn't The hound. Sansa had secretly hoped he'd come back for her, but clearly that wasn't the case. _So why was this man riding Stranger? _The thought made her blood run cold. She may have been daydreaming about the Hound's various deaths but never meant for him to really die. _What if I caused it, _she thought. _What if the Gods decided today was the day they would answer my prayers? _A sprinkling of hope came to her; maybe they only robbed him. They might've knocked him about a bit, but no lasting harm was done to him. Though this alternative was decidedly better than her previous hypothesis, she didn't like it any more, so resolved to make them pay. She jumped down and arranged herself on the ground, blocking the path. _Any minute now, they will round the bend and see me, _she thought. _You are Sansa Stark!_

The closest horse stopped less than a meter away from her. Sansa had arranged her face into an angelic expression, hoping her innocence would be enough to make them stop. She was successful in that, at least. Sansa heard them argue between themselves; one wanted to leave her lying there, the other two wanted to stop and check her out, one with motives better than the other. Sansa groaned loudly and as seductively as she could, hoping someone would jump off their horse and see to her. Her wish came true, and one of the older men, though not the one riding Stranger, jumped down. He leaned down and brought his face closer to hers. Sansa's eyes snapped open and before he could stumble back, Sansa's dagger had found its way into his throat. He choked and spluttered, but Sansa was already up and ready.

The one riding Stranger jumped down and unsheathed his sword.

"I'm gonner rip yer open from shoulder to cunt, you little whore," he said menacingly, moving from leg to leg. Sansa judged him to be taller than the hound, though he was thinner. The younger man remained horsed, though his sword was drawn, too. He didn't look like he knew how to use the broadsword he held, so Sansa paid him no mind. Her attention was on the tall one.

"You'll have to catch me first, and if you're anything like your dead friend here, I wish you all the luck." Sansa laughed, then side stepped a cruel slash at her head.

"You bitch!" He yelled, and slashed at her again. He was slow and Sansa was smarter, predicting his every move before he made it. Soon he grew tired.

"You wait till I catch yer, yer cunt is mine" he threatened between gasps. Sansa had had enough and with a graceful flick of her wrist, the dagger flew out of her hand to land hilt-deep in his right eye. He let out a bloodcurdling scream and staggered for a moment before falling backwards.

Sansa held up a second dagger.

"What's your name, boy?" Sansa asked the young man. He was handsome but scared. _A little bird_.

"T-T-Teddy, m'Lady" he replied nervously. _He really is a little bird, _Sansa thought.

"Care to be known as One-Eyed Teddy?" Sansa asked sweetly. The boy's eyes widened in fear.

"N-No, M'Lady. P-p-please, don't hurt me," he pleaded pathetically.

"That horse," Sansa said, gesturing at Stranger, "where did you get it and where is its owner?"

The boy looked at the beast as if seeing it for the first time.

"The horse, m'Lady? A few hours North, we found it tied to a tree, we did. A man, a big,man, lay on the ground next to him. Lonnie," he pointed at the first man Sansa killed, "Lonnie here tried to wake him. The man was dead, or dying, so we took it. I'm sorry, m'Lady, if the horse were yours. I didn't mean no harm. I just-"

"What else did you take from the man?" The boy appeared shaken when he pulled out a bag of coins and threw them to Sansa. The boy pointed to the horse on the far right.

"There's a helm in there. And a sword. I think the helm belonged to one of the Cleganes but Lonnie took it off your friend, m'Lady. I'm sorry, m'Lady, I didn't mean no harm, I ju-"

"Enough! Take what you want and leave. The two horses stay with me, though." Sansa said, swinging her bag over the brown mare the man named Lonnie rode. The boy scrambled off his horse and looted the dead men's bodies. He took a large, black cloak from the second man she killed.

"Leave me the cloak. Now bugger off" Sansa cursed. The cloak had been the hound's, and she intended to return it him.

"Thank you, m'Lady" the boy rushed out, scrambling back onto his horse clutching his winnings.

"I am not a Lady," Sansa admitted sadly as she watched him gallop off. She jumped onto Stranger, who surprised her by not fighting her off. _Perhaps he knows I mean to return him, _she thought. Grabbing hold of the brown mare's reigns, she turned the two horses around and driving her heels into Stranger's flanks, rode out North.

_He may not want a song, but he will want his sword._


	6. Chapter 6

Night had descended on Sansa an hour into her search. With the uncertainty of his condition and being too worried to rest, Sansa ploughed on stubbornly, pushing Stranger on resolutely. So she rode, the night veiling her in darkness with only the horses' insistent hooves and the night creature's eerie songs for company. In another time, Sansa might've been scared, seeing dark shapes and haunting forms in every tree. But Sansa was devoted to her cause, and though she wanted nothing more than to crawl under the Hound's cloak, she kept on. _Where are you_, Sansa thought. _Are you still with me? _She spurred the horses on, and for hours she rode, sipping the water to calm her dry throat. _Maybe I passed him, _she thought. _It's simply impossible to see in this darkness, I could've ridden right past him. _Doubt niggled at her mind, an accusing voice insisting she overlooked him. Sansa kept gaze low, looking for his shape. Sometimes she thought she saw him, but on closer inspection, she would find a bush, or a pile of rocks. The darkness began to lift when Stranger took a sudden left turn. _Bloody horse, _Sansa thought, attempting to guide his head back towards the path. Then she heard what had beckoned Stranger in this direction; a groan, no louder than a whisper. Sansa's heart skipped a beat, hoping against hope. She stilled, listening intently. Stranger stopped, too, cocking his head and the mare followed suit. The groan again, only this time it was interrupted by a gruff curse. _It's him, _Sansa thought, elated.

In her scramble to get off Stranger her dress caught onto something and ripped, the tear running down the length of her skirt. Sansa didn't care. She took the reigns of the two horses and guided them towards the sounds, the groans getting louder. _He's alive, _she thought happily, ignoring the note of pain in his moans. Alive! She hurried on, almost dragging the two horses behind her. The trees were thick in this part of the woods and she couldn't see where she stepped. At one point she might've fallen, landing painfully on a rock with her knee, but she brushed off the dirt and blood, carrying on. _Can't stop now, _she thought, when she came to a clearing. She found him leaning against a tree trunk, skins of wine littering the ground around him. He didn't seem to notice Sansa, so she quickly tied the horses to trees and crossed the small space between them. He still didn't notice her, his eyes being closed, but she could see he was breathing, his chest heaving. Sansa kneeled by his side, bringing her hand to his forehead when the knife pricked her neck, the steel cold against her skin.

"What do you want?" He growled, eyes still shut tight. Sansa leaned into the knife, letting it cut deeper into her skin. She could feel the blood pooling in her clavicle.

"You won't hurt me," she whispered in his ear, remembering the last conversation they had in King's Landing. _Blackwater. That kiss._.. The hound's eyes flew open. Sansa saw surprise, relief and something else in them. Something she didn't quite understand.

"No, little bird. I won't hurt you," he whispered back, his voice gravelly.

"I'm sorry," were his last words before his arm dropped limply into his lap and his eyes fluttered shut. Sansa stroked his face, pushing his hair back from the burns and placing a kiss on his temple.

"I'm sorry, too," she said against his cheek, and when she kissed him again, she could taste salt on her lips. _She couldn't tell whose tears they were._

Finding the wound wasn't the problem. She could see the way his right shoulder hunched forward a little more than the left, as if he meant to protect it. Sansa wasn't sure whether he was asleep or unconscious, but she undressed him anyway, ridding him of the sweat soaked tunic he wore. The wound wasn't as bad as she had thought, though it gave off a slight odour, which is probably why he fell sick. Once she undressed him, she lay out a bedroll and put it down next to him, before pushing roughly him onto his side and rolling him over so he lay on his stomach, partly so she could clean the festered wound but mostly so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit. She uttered an apology but since he didn't notice, it didn't really matter. She shrugged and after carefully arranging the blanket so it didn't touch the wound, Sansa went into the woods in search of firewood. Squinting against the darkness, she gathered the necessary wood in her arms, wondering whether Sandor will be alright. _He must!_ Though he had left her, she thought maybe he'd done it because he thought he might be more of a hindrance than help, this big lumbering man being taken ill. I _certainly_ can't carry him around every, Sansa thought. Before she knew it, she was giggling at the thought of hoisting the hound up on her back and walking to Winterfell.

She finished gathering the wood and walked back to camp, still smiling at the vision of him slung over her shoulder. She arranged the wood in a pile and struck the flint, watching the embers glow orange before blowing on it a little. The glow brightened, and when she held the dry leaves against it, smoke circled up and it caught fire. The fire grew steadily, close enough to the hound to give him warmth, far enough away so as not to startle him should he wake up. She went back to Stranger and unloaded the bags off his back, pitying the black destrier for a moment, before he snapped at her and pity was replaced by contempt.

_Stupid horse_, she thought. _Do you not see I'm trying to help you and your master? _She approached it again, and Stranger snorted a warning, blowing air through his nose. Sansa lost her temper and hit him on the nose. Isn't that what you do with horses, she thought? Or was it dogs? She was certain it wasn't horses when Stranger reared up and kicked out but Sansa moved out of the way of the vicious kick aimed at her chest. She jumped back and hit Stranger on the nose again, this time out of anger and not some ignorant training technique. Stranger snorted again but didn't lash out, choosing to shake his large head from left to right instead.

"Okay, I won't hit you again if you promise not to hurt me," she whispered, and a part of her was faintly amused that she was attempting to make a deal with Stranger. The horse, however, seemed to understand her, and he allowed her to put her hand on his head, gently. She stroked him and moved to his side, unbuckling the siddle and pulling the blanket off him before running him down thoroughly. Sandor would want me to take care of him, she thought as she worked the horse's coat in to a high shine. When she was done, she fed him an apple from Sandor's bag. She took the helm from the bag, too, before filling it with wine. She put the helm in the fire, bringing the wine to boil while the thrust her dagger in the fire, allowing the flames to lick at the steel and cleanse the blade, before the worked on Sandor's wound.

The cut was an ugly gash high on his right shoulder blade, the smell rank. Sansa cut away as much of the festered flesh as she could, remembering Maester Luwin and the few times she saw him work on some villagers who had been brought in with similar complaints. When the wine had boiled, she picked the helm up and poured the hot liquid over his wound to flush out any lingering dirt. Though Sandor didn't wake, or even cry out, she could see his distress as he groaned and thrashed around. She stopped pouring the wine over his wound and settled down near his head, smoothing his hair down and whispering nonsense words she knew he couldn't hear. When he calmed down, she ripped a strip of fabric from one of the nightgowns Sandor packed for her, the soft cotton clean against his skin. She tied him up best as she could before clearing the stuff away and lying down next to him, him fevered brow moist with sweat.

Sansa didn't sleep that night. Sandor was delirious and yelling a girl's name, yelling for her to come back; how much he loved her. Sansa was loathe to admit it but hearing him talk about another girl like that made her see green in envy. She had thought he cared about her, but _clearly,_ she was wrong. _Clearly_ Sansa came second (if that!) to this other girl, Elenor. The thought of Sandor loving another more than he loved Sansa made her sad, because for so long he had been the only one. Ever since King's Landing, though she hadn't even known it herself, she loved him. And everyday without him afterwards was torture because he had offered to take her away, and she had stupidly refused. And now he had found someone else, someone better. _No, _Sansa thought, _I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and he WILL love me._ Kissing him on his forehead, hot and slick with sweat, she dabbed at the excess moisture before settling against his side, her breasts pressed against the top of his arms. He _will_ love me.


	7. Chapter 7

He was freezing cold one moment, boiling hot the next. He wished for dreams, the darkness too much to bear, but when he saw his sister, sweet Elenor's face, he wished for the darkness to swallow him whole. She sat with him, _his sister_, holding his hand as she sang songs of courtly love and glorious knights. She sang of Florian and his Jonquil, of Jenny of Oldstones. She sang of love lost and Love that sticks with you, forever. The kind of love he felt for her. _For his little bird_. His sister's face swam before his, her kind grey eyes filled with concern. His face felt hot, though the burns had long stopped bothering him, the tears that slid over them scalded his skin, so fierce were they. She smiled then, and her own tears joined his as they dropped onto his face, mingling with his pain, his misery.

"_Elenor,"_ he croaked, his voice rough like the first time he spoke after the burns, his throat ravaged by fire and smoke. _"Elenor, stay with me, please. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I should've been there, I should never have left you. When he beat you, Gods! I should've been there! I left you, Elenor, I left you and I'm sorry. Forgive me, please, and don' leave me like I left you. Don't leave. Stay. Elenor..."_ The words wouldn't stop, and after years of being pent-up inside his heart, they tumbled out, eager to caress the world with their love._ And their hate._

"_Elenor,"_ he whispered again, reaching a hand out to touch her face. She was not particularly beautiful, yet Sandor knew angels envied her. They must, for there was not a soul as kind and loving as his sweet sister's. Nobody else would love a boy ravaged by fire, except for her, yet her love for him outweighed all the love in the world, her devotion to him unrivalled. He loved her, too. _And he has let her down._ She smiled at him again, stroked his burnt cheek, her fingers dancing over the grooves and ridges on his skin. Leaning down, she brought her face down to his and pressed her lips to his brow bone, the de-sensitised skin masking the pressure of her sweet lips. He turned into her kiss, but when she lifted her face to look him in the eyes, hers were blue.

_Little bird_, he thought. She, too, smiled at him, and her soft hands stroked the hair back from his forehead, holding a wet cloth against his skin to cool his fever down.

"How do you feel, Sandor?" Her voice was oddly realistic, reaching his ears as though they were spoken aloud. He looked at her again, and finally noticed a dull pain in his shoulder. _I'm awake_, he realised. _I'm alive_. He felt a pang of disappointment, but cleared his throat to speak.

"Like death," he answered, attempting to sit back up, but Sansa firmly pushed him back.

"You were close, certainly. But not quite dead, yet." She gave a self-satisfied smirk, fussing over his hair and pressing cool towels against his face, rearranging his covers. He watched her intently. _She saved me_, he thought. _The little bird saved my life_. _And now it belonged to her_. He had been dreaming of his sister, but it was Sansa who brought him back to life. Something lodged itself in his throat and he cleared it once, before the girl came rushing back with water, pressing the cup to his lip.

"Drink," she ordered, tipping the water into his parched mouth. She stared boldly at his face as he gulped it down, and he wondered when she had stopped fearing his scars._ Gods, when had she stopped fearing everything?_ It all came back to him, now. The inn, the men who took Stranger while he was unable to even lift his head, let alone a sword, and the little bird. _You won't hurt me._ He heard a soft snorting sound and shifted his eyes to the left, unwilling to look at the girl standing before him, staring expectantly into his face.

"You brought Stranger back," he mumbled stupidly. _The girl saved my life, and brought my horse back to me. _He wondered how she had convinced the horse to behave. He hoped Stranger had been good to her, though the temper on that horse was uncontrollable.

"Yes," she said, still looking him in the face. Suddenly she got up and started preparing food, and Sandor noticed a skinned hare on a spit.

"You caught that?" He knew he sounded bewildered, but he had never imagined the girl capable of killing an animal. _Yet she killed Bolton, and he was the biggest there is_, he smirked at the memory of the dead Northerner.

"What's so funny?" She countered, mistaking his smirk to be directed at her. He wanted to tell her proud he was of her, but the words just wouldn't come.

"You, little bird." He answered, shrugging. She turned red with anger, though in King's Landing her blushes only came from embarrassment. _She has changed_, he thought, and he found he liked her this way. He liked his little bird with talons.

"I'm funny? I saved your life, _ser_, and you dare to mock me?" She shrieked, flinging the hare pelt at him. She flung something else as well, but Sandor couldn't see as his face screwed up. Laughter rose up from within his chest, and he let it out in a fit of mirth, ignoring the pain in his shoulder s his body shook. The little bird got angrier, still, and stalked over to where he sat, hovering over him menacingly. He grinned up at her, before he sobered up and growled.

"You think my life means anything to me, girl?" He rasped, cursing himself for his inability to apologize, to thank her. _She has saved your life, dog, show some gratitude_. His tongue just wouldn't co-operate. She sighed and Sandor saw a fleeting look of sadness wash over her face, before she turned around.

"Perhaps it means something to me," she said, her back to him. She returned to the roasting hare, turning the spit, her back still facing him. Sandor glared at her small frame, angry with himself and angry with her for her stupid chirping. He remembered how she had looked at him when he woke up, the smile that brightened up his face, the same one his sister had worn those many years ago. Mayhaps she told the truth, he tried to convince himself. Maybe the little bird does... have _feelings_, for me. As much as he tried to tell himself that, though, he refused to believe it._ What would she want with an old dog like me. A broken, old dog, _he thought. _No, she needs someone pure, someone not filled with anger. Someone who can love her true, as she deserves. _He had tried staying away from her, but perhaps he would stay with her, and try harder not to love her.

She was quiet for the rest of the day, though she carried on nursing him with the same relentless attitude as before. Sandor allowed her to tend to his wound, though he drew the line at feeding him, which she had wanted to do, as well. He could feed himself, he thought bitterly as he bit into the hare. She didn't talk to him that day, nor the day after that, and as he grew stronger and his wound started the healing process, her gentle touches stopped altogether. _It's better this way, _he thought, though her soft caresses were sorely missed. _It's better this way._


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa woke up just before dawn. Stranger was restless and kicked dirt at her in his anxiety, the brown mare neighing in agreement. Sansa got up and attempted to calm the horse down, whispering sweet words in his ear to no avail. _Sweet words don't work on that beast, _Sansa thought. _And not on his horse either. _Stranger cocked his head and Sansa heard it, too. Hooves. Horses. Voices! Sansa ran over to where the hound lay snoring, jumping over the remains of last night's fire. She crouched down next to him and half shouted, half whispered his name.

"Sandor. Sandor, wake up!" His eyes flew open, the grey hard and focused within seconds.

"What?" he asked in a harsh voice, but jumped up when he heard it, too. Sansa threw him his cloak and he swung it over himself, grunting against pain as he pulled the hood up over his head. In a flash, his face was covered. Sansa did the same, only covering her hair. She quickly cleared away their stuff, throwing them in the saddlebags as Sandor untied the horses. She reached into the mare's bag and extracted Sandor's sword. If he was surprised to see it, he didn't show it. Instead, he urged her to get onto her horse and did the same.

"We go East," he said, and galloped into that direction, expecting her to follow.

"Saltpans?" Sansa asked stupidly.

"Yes, Saltpans, Little bird. Or stay, if you prefer." Sansa had no choice but to follow, not having anywhere else to go. Winterfell was gone. The Starks were gone. _People were coming. _Sansa spurred her horse on, but it was too late. A group of riders intercepted them. Five, Sansa counted. She thought her and the hound could take them on, if it came down to it, despite his barely healed shoulder. Sandor had stopped Stranger, locked in a stare with the other riders.

"Let us pass," he commanded. The leader of the riders spoke in a lazy drawl.

"Not so fast, old man. Where are you going?" Sansa reckoned he might've been of an age with her, his companions a little younger. Certainly no threat, she judged.

"None of your business. Let us pass." Sansa tried to keep her voice clear. She could sense Sandor's inward groan, but ignored him. Spurring her mare on, she moved to stand next to Sandor. The group of riders chuckled.

"Woah, a girl. Say, what brings you here with such questionable company?" The leader of the pack laughed. Sansa bristled.

"Like I said, it's none of your bloody business, boy."

"You better watch your tongue, girl-"

"Don't make threats you can't deliver," Sandor echoed. The boy turned red with anger, then jumped off his horse in one fluid movement.

"Get down, old man, or I'll kill you atop your horse," he spat, unsheathing his sword and holding it in front of him bravely. _Foolishly_. Sansa could see he was a remnant of summer, though the winter had been harsh and cruel, the stupidity of young age with still with him. She briefly wondered what life would've been like had winter not come for her and her family, but pushed the thought to the back of her mind. _No point thinking on that now, _she thought. She turned back to the situation at hand, the stupid boy with his sword pointing at Sandor. Sandor was just about to get down when a thin voice spoke up.

"No, Tommy, leave them." The boy said. Sansa looked for the source and her eyes widened in recognition.

"The girl, that's the girl I told you about. The girl that saved my life." _Technically I didn't save your life, _Sansa thought. _I just let you keep it. _Sandor turned to look at Sansa, his eyes questioning. The boy who they called Tommy put away his sword.

"M'Lady," he said, and bowed low, his nose close to touching the ground and Sansa felt a blush creep up her neck. Teddy jumped off his horse and did the same. Sandor looked at her again, and Sansa shrugged in response. Sandor gave up trying to understand what had happened and heaved himself back onto Stranger.

"If you two are done..." He said, gesturing for them to move aside. The two boys jumped back onto their horses, then made a path for Sandor and Sansa.

"Where are you heading?" Teddy asked Sansa. She looked at the hound before answering.

"East," she said, and noticed that the hound nodded, the burned side of his mouth twitching.

"You don't mind if we ride with you? Only we're headed the same way, m'Lady." Teddy blushed and stared at the ground. The hound gritted his teeth, but Sansa consented.

"Seven is always better than two," she admitted. "We would welcome your company."

"Thank you, m'Lady. For- for… earlier, as well," Teddy stammered as they struck out.

"And thank you, Teddy." Sansa smiled when his blush turned a deep crimson. Sansa urged her horse on and fell in beside the hound. He turned to look at her, then scoffed and turned away, muttering something about pathetic green boys.

"What did you say?" She asked playfully, but the hound was not in the mood for playfulness. _Or anything._

"Harrumphh," The hound mumbled, pulling his hood lower onto his face. Sansa kept on.

"Teddy seems nice, right?" She asked, wanting a reaction. She got nothing, but she was relentless in her effort to make him notice; to make him love her. _Elenor_, the name echoed in her head.

"He's very handsome and courteous, don't you think?" Sansa probed. The hound looked at her suspiciously.

"If you say so, little bird."

"But what would _you _say?" Sansa would not let the issue alone. _Sandor must care, _she thought. _Surely he wouldn't have brought me with him if he didn't care._ Sansa tried convincing herself that he did, but it seemed far from the truth. _He won't even look at me!_

"He's completely wrong for you," he finally admitted, making a blush appear high on her cheekbones. Sansa smiled innocently. She risked one more question, hoping his answer would be the one she wanted.

"And who _IS_ right for me, _ser_?" She wasn't sure whether it was the seductive voice she used, or the way she stressed the knightly title, but the hound turned a bright red, mouth twitching.

"A handsome Lord of some place, I'd wager. Someone who is high-born, brave, honourable and deserving of both your name and beauty." The hound's eyes betrayed nothing, but his knuckles turned white from his tight grip on the reigns. He drove his heels into Stranger's flanks and left her to ride with Teddy, Tommy and their companions. _Damn him, _Sansa thought. _Can't he see I'm offering him his song on a silver platter?_

The other three were Jake, Droop, so called for his lazy eye, and Handy Kev, who lost a hand in some battle or other. Sansa's eyes were on the hound as Kev recounted the events leading up to his loss of limb as she nibbled on a piece of bread. The hound was cleaning his sword with a rag, inspecting every inch of the cold, shiny steel. They had stopped to rest on Teddy's insistence. He had claimed it was for Sansa's benefit, though she suspected he was getting saddle-sore. She didn't object, and the hound grunted his consent, tying Stranger to a tree. Tommy came to sit next to her when Kev left to get more cheese.

"Your father isn't very talkative, is he?" He said jokingly, ripping into his bread.

"He isn't my father!" She blurted out. Though they hadn't decided on a story, pretending to be father and daughter felt wrong to her. Tommy looked at her questioningly.

"He, uh, isn't my father." Sansa repeated, aware of how stupid she sounded. If he wasn't her father, than what was he? Certainly not a friend, nor her husband.

"He's my uncle," she decided. Tommy nodded. She could see Teddy and Kev watching their exchange, Teddy blushing when he caught her eye. It was Sansa's turn to ask a question.

"What takes you East?" She asked, though she couldn't tell what was taking her there, either. She guessed the Hound would board a ship to the Free Cities, and she didn't think he would take her with him. The thought made her sad; there once was a time when he would've taken her along. _But that was the old Sansa_, she thought. _The little bird_.

"My brother and I," he gestured to Teddy, whose face turned an even darker red when he realised they were talking about him, "are on our way home. We have some land in Maidenpool. It's not much but enough for the two of us, I s'pose. Our parents- well, you must know, you're here with your uncle, after all." Tommy shrugged and Sansa nodded her agreement.

"The war has been tough on a lot of people" she said, putting her hand on his arm, giving it a squeeze.

"Those two men, the ones Teddy was with. Who were they?" Sansa asked, and Tommy's gaze darkened.

"Thank you, again. We are forever in your debt, m'Lady." He said, ignoring the question and making to leave.

"Nym, please. Call me Nym. I am no lady; you can ask your brother." Sansa smiled. Tommy repeated her name before returning to his friends. Sansa's gaze returned to the hound, but he was nowhere to be found. She got up and walked to where Stranger was tied to his tree, pawing the ground and blowing air out if his nose. Sansa took a brush from his saddlebag and reached up to comb his mane.

"Watch out, girl. Stranger likes the taste of birds," a rough voice came from behind her. Sansa looked at the hound over her shoulder, before raising her arm to reach the top of Stranger's head. The hound caught her before she could touch the horse, his large, calloused hand swallowing her own. For several heartbeats they stood like that, her hand in his. Then she wrenched her arm away and the moment was gone.

"He won't hurt me." She said. Once more she was taken back to that fateful night. _No, little bird. I won't hurt you. _It was as if the hound remembered, too.

"No, little bird. He won't hurt you," the hound whispered quietly before stepping away. Sansa could feel his eyes on her as she brushed Stranger's coat free of dirt and dust, the sun rippling off his shiny black coat. When she was done, he nuzzled her face and neck, and Sansa hugged him back. Though she had come to like her smaller, more gentle mare, she loved Stranger. It was him who showed her the way to Sandor that night, and him who warned them of the approaching riders. Sansa felt as though he was looking out for her, and in a world where she had nobody, that feeling was worth more than her weight in gold. Sansa kissed the horse on his nose. _I love you, _she said. _And I always knew you wouldn't hurt me._


	9. Chapter 9

Seeing her with that boy angered him. She was back to her old self again, the chirping little bird, chirping her sweet words and smiling abundantly. He saw her talk to the tall one, Tommy, his name was, and saw him stare openly at the curve of her breasts. The little bird either didn't notice, or she did a good job pretending he wasn't doing it, because she smiled kindly and rested her hand on his arm. _Stupid little girl_, he thought, though she was long past being a girl. A woman grown now, making him painfully aware of his own age_. You're getting old, dog, _a voice said, _she doesn't want you_. Yet she cared for him, a little, to be sure, but it was enough. Sandor had long ago decided he would take from her what she would give. His life belonged to her now.

He moved to stand behind the other two boys, one who was uglier than himself. Weeping sores covered his face and yet Sansa treated him as courteous as she did the others. _She's just being kind, _he thought, and it angered him that she would treat everyone the same, that he wasn't special. Everything angered him lately. The way she kept touching him, small touches on his arm or shoulder. The way her eyes always sought out his, and the smile that followed when she caught them. Several times now her breasts had pressed against his arm as she squeezed by against him, though there was plenty of room for her to pass. _She's toying with you, dog. She's bored and look, she's forgotten about you as soon as younger, handsomer men turned up._ This, however, was also a lie. She still managed to touch his hand when she took a cup of water from him, her soft fingers brushing against his knuckles. She also moved her bedroll closer to him every night, and now when he slept, he could reach out and fling his arm around her.

The two boys spoke in hushed voices, the one with the sores and the droopy-eyed one. The whispers stopped as soon as they noticed him and they turned away, walking a distance before stopping and resuming their low conversation. Sandor felt uncomfortable, a suspicion heavy in his stomach, yet he let it go. The little bird had trusted them, and he needed to trust her. _Like a faithful dog, yes_. He swigged from a wineskin Tommy had given him and leaned heavily against a tree. He saw her stand up and walk towards Stranger, and when she reached out her hand, he felt compelled to say something. Moving to stand behind her, he growled something about Stranger liking birds and noticed with satisfaction that she no longer jumped at his presence. _Maybe she doesn't hate me_. He caught her hand in his, anyway, if only to feel her soft skin against his. Only for a moment. She looked back at him and he noted the absence of fear and disgust, his heart squeezing at the realisation that she wasn't repulsed by him.

"He won't hurt me," she had replied, and Sandor was transported back to the Battle of Blackwater. He remembered how he had drunk himself into oblivion, and woke to find himself holding a knife to the girl's milky throat. Embarrassment flooded him and he let go of her hand, stepping back.

"No, little bird, he won't hurt you." With that, he left her alone, mortified that she should want to remind him of that night. It seemed she wasn't as scornful towards what had happened as he was_. I made her sing,_ he thought. _I held a knife to her throat and forced her to sing for her life. _No, Sansa wouldn't love him, but after all he had done to her, he knew he didn't even deserve the kindness she showed him now. Sliding down against a tree, he watched the scene in front him. The little bird with Stranger, making him pretty and hugging him when he bumps his head against her. Sandor smiled despite himself. _She had managed to tame the beast, after all._


	10. Chapter 10

It was three nights later when Stranger woke Sansa, again. They had been riding hard during the day, but Sansa was sure it was the wine that put the hound, a man who was usually always alert, in deep sleep. She might've thought he'd learned from his lesson the day he left her, but there was no stopping him. He ignored the pointed looks she threw his way, and when she told him he should slow, he scoffed and turned away, swigging deeply in defiance. So Sansa sat up groggily, looking around the camp. Teddy, lay at her feet. He had taken on the role of Sansa's protector and his duties never seemed to end, from sunrise to sunset. Sansa had come to tolerate his company, though Stranger had never taken to him, or his companions. Stranger was never an amiable horse, but when they were around he would become very agitated and irate. Sansa didn't think anything of it, but at this moment, with the other four boy's bedrolls empty, Sansa's pulse quickened. She rushed over to the Hound, viciously kicking him in the ribs. He took a moment too long so Sansa kicked him again. This time he sat up.

"Seven hells! That's no way to wake a man up, Little bird," he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. Sansa made to kick him again, but he grabbed her foot before it could connect.

"Not while I'm awake," the hound growled, and pulled her foot, making her stumble. Sansa lost her balance and fell on top of him. She felt the muscles under his rough-hewn shirt ripple and her hands instinctively tensed.

"Now, this is how you wake a man." Sansa quickly scrambled off his lap and adjusted her hair, blushing.

"Look," she said, pointing at the empty beds. The hound's eyes narrowed and he was up in a flash. His sword was in his hand before she knew where it had appeared from.

"Wake up your boy," the hound said, gesturing at Teddy. Sansa muttered something about how she would rather have a man, if he wanted her but she was out of earshot before the hound could know who exactly this man was. She woke Teddy in the same manner, bringing a twisted smile on the hound's lips. The boy came to on the first kick.

"Wha-what?" He spluttered, pushing himself up on his feet.

"Where are your friends, boy?" The hound yelled, his sword pointed at the boy's throat. Sansa was busy putting away their things, incase they needed to run. The hound stepped closer to Teddy.

"Last chance, boy. Where are your friends? Answer quick and precise or you'll greet them with a red smile." Sansa rolled her eyes at the threat but kept her mouth shut. Teddy looked helplessly at Sansa, who was untying the horses. She shot a quick smile at him.

"Teddy, you know where they've gone. Would you tell me?" She pleaded, aware of how pathetic she sounded. _Good, _she thought. _He'll be more likely to help a pleading maid than a threatening one._ She could see the resolve flood out of him, but he never had a chance to speak. His eyes widened and suddenly, a small circle of red appeared on the front of his shirt, growing bigger and bigger. He slumped forward and revealed a smiling Droop, his smile reaching neither good eye nor bad. Tommy, Handy Kev and Jake appeared from the shadows of the trees, encircling Sansa and the Hound.

"You were meant to be asleep," Tommy explained, shrugging his shoulders. All four brandished swords; all four looked as though they intended to use them. Tommy moved to stand behind her, sword pointed at her back. The others surrounded the hound.

"Drop yer sword, old man," Tommy said. The hound made no move, but when Sansa nodded at him, he lowered it uncertainly. His eyes quizzed hers, but found nothing but desperation in them. He was surrounded by three swords, their sharp edges glinting. Even if he managed to kill them, he was sure too be wounded, and Sansa couldn't bare him falling ill again. Still, she was surprised he gave in so easily, though the glint in his eyes told her he knew she was up to something. _Please don't do anything to get yourself killed, _she thought. She felt Tommy's sword on her back before it inched down to her buttocks.

"What to do with the girl?" She heard him wonder aloud. The sword had fallen to the bottom, before forcing itself between her legs.

"Ever been fucked by a sword?" He finally asked, removing the weapon. A blush crept on Sansa's neck.

"I reckon she'd like it," Jake laughed. Sansa glared at the boy, a tall gangly thing cursed with weeping sores and unfortunate teeth. She had tried looking past his visage, but now, as he leered at her, he has never looked uglier.

"Touch her and you die," the hound growled, before a savage blow to the head with the butt of Kev's sword left him reeling. Sansa shrieked before she could help herself.

"The little mouse cries for her uncle," Tommy jeered. "Perhaps we should see if the uncle will cry for her..." and the sword picked at the bottom of her skirt. Sansa had had enough.

"What do you want? I'll do whatever, just leave my uncle," she pleaded, drawing a strange look from the hound. _Let me do this, _her eyes said. They laughed again.

"What do you think? Gold, you stupid little girl."

Sansa turned to face him. Though Tommy was handsome, he had a cruel look on his face that made him look ugly. _Like Joffrey_, a voice said.

"Are you sure that's all you want?" She asked him in her most seductive voice, inching closer to him. She could see him lose focus. _Almost, _she thought. She moved closer, still.

"I've seen you looking at me with the same look that you have now. Wanting. Your brother, well. He wasn't quite like you. Weak, he was." She brought her face up to his as he placed his hand on her waist. She could feel the hound's eyes burning into her back. She closed the space between her and Tommy, feeling his lean body against hers, and it didn't feel right. _Not like his, _she thought. His breath hitched as she lightly brushed her lips against his, then brought her face up to his ear.

"But you're no true knight, and you won't have a song from me" she whispered, before deftly pulling her dagger from her sleeve and pushing it into the soft skin of his throat, pushing as she pulled it along to the other side of his neck. He made a soft guttural sound and she let go. Twirling around, she let the dagger fly out of her hand, hitting Droop in his good eye, lodging itself into his brain. Droop's body hit the ground before Tommy's did. The hound, who had apparently been paying close attention to Tommy and Sansa, had seen what had happened and raised his sword, so when Droop stumbled to the ground, the others followed suit. Within seconds, Sansa and the hound stood surrounded by five bodies. He looked at her.

"Quite a show you put on, little bird," he growled, but something told Sansa he was not impressed.

"I didn't see another way," she said before noticing Jake moving. She stepped over to him and with a swift thrust of her dagger, all sounds and movements stopped. She glared up at the hound.

"Once again, I save your life" she smiled innocently. "Pretty soon and we'll be even."

The hound snorted.

"You had a boy killed" he said gesturing at Teddy. Sansa looked down at the boy's limp, lifeless body. He had a queer smile on his lips which mirrored onto Sansa's mouth. With a soft sob, she looked away suddenly. The hound stalked over to where she stood, and pulling a handkerchief from his pockets, he gently held her by her chin and pulled her face towards him, wiping her tears. Sansa defiantly stared at him, her eyes falling on every inch of his face. A blush crept up the hound's neck and he turned away, pushing the handkerchief into her hands.

"You can wipe yer own bloody tears," he rumbled, moving away. Sansa dropped the handkerchief and grabbed his sleeve, pulling him back. He still faced away from her, so she reached up and grabbed hold of his chin, his rough beard tickling her hands. She felt him resist, but she pulled on his chin more insistently, forcing him to look at her.

"Why won't you take it?" She asks under her breath. His eyes question hers, but when she shook her head, the question was replaced by something else. Something feral mixed with sadness and...Longing. Sansa held his gaze, then reached her hand up to hold the burnt side of his face. Before she could touch him, his expression hardened and he stepped aside.

"Gather your stuff, little bird," he said before saddling Stranger. Sansa was left standing alone amidst all that death, her arms hanging limply by her side. _He doesn't want it, _she despaired. _He doesn't love me. _Crouching down, she picked up his handkerchief and quickly stuffed it under her sleeve. _I will make him; _she strengthened her resolve, looking around a camp with 5 dead boys and one who didn't love her. _But he will, _she thought stubbornly. _I will make him._


	11. Chapter 11

_She never once complained_, he thought with a fierce sense of pride as Sansa tied her horse to a tree. They had found a cave to rest in, not taking any chances after Tommy and his companions. They had barely spoken since then, but Sandor would never forget the way she looked at him with something like love in her eyes. Of course it couldn't have been love, because why would she give a shit about him, yet he couldn't deny what he had seen. And it frustrated him, because the little bird didn't know what she was asking for. He watched her enter the cave as he brushed the horses down, dragging their bags behind her. _She looked like her old self_, Sandor mused, yet she was nothing like the little lady he first saw in Winterfell. _Joffrey's betrothed. Tyrion's wife._ Thinking about the Imp set his teeth on edge, anger balling his hands into tight fists. The Imp had touched her, claimed her maidenhead and what was left of her innocence, and Sandor hated him for it. He had dreamt of killing the dwarf, of cutting off his little dwarf cock and stuffing it in his arsehole, so the little Imp could fuck himself till he bled to death. _Fuck himself to death_. Sandor grinned despite the seriousness of his threat, if only he could get his hands on the Imp. But the little Lannister was dead, or so it was believed, having killed his nephew and escaped before his sentence could be carried out. Sandor knew Cersei had put a price on the Imp's head, and he was certain no man would forego a Lordly title and lands for the Imp, so he calmed himself with the thought that the Imp was well and truly dead, though he was bitter that it wasn't by his own hands.

Having finished with the horses, he made towards the entrance of the cave, ducking his head so not to hit himself on the low ceiling. He noticed that Sansa had swept the floor as best as she could, and a small fire was already burning. He nodded his head, impressed, and sat down. She was sitting across from him on her bedroll, watching him take off his armour, not taking her eyes off him.

"See anything you like?" He growled, irritated by her gaze. She simply looked him in the eye and arched an eyebrow.

"Should I be impressed?" She replied, her voice silkier than any rich fabric Sandor had ever felt. She seemed at ease, and as he was uncomfortable, this irritated him even more. _Gods, why can I never act normal around her?_ He let out a low growl and turned away from her, rooting in his bag for another shirt. When he found one, he grabbed the bottom of the one he was currently wearing and in one swift motion pulled it over his head. He heard a slight gasp and when he turned to her, he saw her staring at him, eyes hooded in what he could only describe as lust. _Though he had never been looked at in such a way, so he couldn't be sure. What woman in her right mind would want to be with me willingly?_ He'd had his fair share of whores, mayhaps more than what was fair, bending them over and fucking into them till he spent his seed. Asking 'how much?' was as far as his interaction with women went, and even then he avoided their eyes, not wanting to see disgust in them, or worse, pity. So he fucked them from behind, uncaring of their needs, a selfish lover if ever there was one. But he didn't care, since he was paying for it, yet he always left the brothels feeling disgusted with himself. _And now the Little Bird is looking at me like that?_ He wanted to snap her out of it, to wake her up from this dream she must've built him into. _Perhaps she fancies me a knight,_ he thought.

"Are you sure you don't like what you see?" He asked, grimacing at the hint of desperation in his voice. He wanted her to say yes, he realised, and hated himself for his desire for her. She's _not meant for the likes of you, dog_. Tyrion should never have had her, and you're not much better than he is, _hound_. She seemed to blink and come to, looking at him in the eyes as if she's seeing him for the first time.

"What- me? I'm... yes, I'm quite sure," she stuttered. Sandor laughed, though he found this anything but funny.

"Then perhaps you can stop looking at me like a bitch in heat." He shrugged, pulling the clean shirt over his head.

"I wasn't looking at you like anything," she argued, but it made him laugh harder. If only to shut her up before she said something he really wouldn't like. It did the trick and she sank back into silence, brooding about something or other. Sandor sighed and sat down, pulled his sword from the scabbard and his whetstone from his bag. As he set to working on his sword, the little bird peeped up again.

"Where are you going?" She asked, looking down at her hands. She looked just like the old Sansa, sitting there with her legs folded neatly beneath her. He liked this Sansa.

"Saltpans, I told you."

She rolled her eyes at him, and he got a glimpse of the feisty woman Sansa had become. He liked her, too.

"I know, I mean, after Saltpans." He watched her face carefully. He wasn't sure if she would come with him, and he was too scared to ask in case she said no. _I just want you safe, little bird_.

"Braavos. Now stop your chirping and get some sleep. We leave again at dawn." Sandor could've kicked himself. Why was he always so gruff with her, when all she wanted was to talk to him? He had never had anyone want to engage in conversation with him as much as she wanted to, and although they were comfortable in their silence, it seemed she just wanted to talk for the sake of talking. _But you can't even give her that, can you dog?_ He heard her sigh, and then stretched out across her bedroll and turn around, facing away from him. He watched the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips, appreciating the figure she had grown into. _Why can't I just be nice to her?_


	12. Chapter 12

It was another week before they reached the Saltpans. They had been riding long and hard everyday, seldom stopping for a rest. The hound seemed in a hurry to leave Westeros, and Sansa could do no more than follow. He'd been in a sullen silence since that night in the cave, and Sansa was frustrated with trying to engage him in polite conversation. _He seems utterly uninterested, _Sansa thought as they approached the village. She could taste the salt in her mouth, inhaling the crisp air around her. They took the road into the town, the wind blowing her hair around her. She shook her hair out of her face, the hound chuckling in amusement

"You better put your hood up, little bird," he added, chuckling again. She gave him a withering look. He shrugged when he saw her glare, a smile playing around his mouth. They made their way to an inn, the hound throwing some coins at the young boy who came out to meet them.

"Feed the horses, will yer," he said, removing his saddle and bag from Stranger. Sansa did the same with Jonquil, her sweet brown mare. Sansa eyed the boy, a gangly thing with sandy, wind-whipped hair_. He doesn't stand a chance against Stranger, _she thought.

"Be careful around the black one," she warned, giving him an encouraging smile. Stranger chose this moment to rear up, his legs kicking at the stable boy.

"He's not for nothing called Stranger," she apologised. The boy's eyes widened and he looked at the horse apprehensively. Sansa left him to struggle with Stranger's reins, running to catch up with the hound. He held the door to The Red Inn open for her, the crimson paint on the door chipping and cracked. She ducked underneath the hound's arm, startled at the deafening darkness of the common room. The hound led her to an alcove, washed in shadows and whispers. The common room was empty, so Sansa removed the hood from her head as the hound slid in on the other side of the table. A homely woman with dark curly hair and a sweet smile bounced over to the table.

"Good morning," she smiled, her eyes running over Sansa and stopping at the hound. She eyed him up, her eyes glinting at the big man. His good side was facing her, and his eyes were fixed on the wall in front of him, but Sansa could sense his discomfort. When nobody answered, she cleared her throat and asked what she could get them.

"Something to break our fast with and wine. And hurry up about it, woman," the hound finally growled, and the woman scurried off looking smaller than when she had come over. The hound had that effect on people, and Sansa blushed to think about the days he had made her feel like that.

"You didn't have to talk to her in that way," Sansa whispered. She thought he wouldn't answer, but after a moment, he slowly turned his face to hers, catching her eyes.

"Like what, little bird?" He growled, placing his fists on the table and leaning forward. Sansa refused to be intimidated, and mirrored his movements. Their faces were now less than a hand span away from each other.

"Like... like the hound," Sansa finally whispered. The hound sat back in his seat, his eyes clouding over. The atmosphere seemed to thicken, and their stand-off was interrupted by the arrival of their meal. Sansa reached for the eggs as the woman collected the coins Sandor had thrown on the table. He reached for the skin of wine, filling two cups and sliding one towards her. He grasped his own in his fist and raised it to Sansa in a mock toast, a smile twisting his mouth before tipping the wine towards his face. He gulped it all down in one go before slamming the cup on to the table and reaching for the wine again. Sansa got to it before he did, and slid it towards herself.

"Eat," she said. The hound stared long at her in surprise, but she held his gaze boldly.

"Eat." She repeated, reaching for another egg. She ignored his scowl, and smiled to herself when he grudgingly reached for some bacon and stuffed it in his mouth, swallowing without chewing. Sansa's mouth fell open and he laughed before swallowing another rash.

"The wine now, little bird, before I come and get it myself. And I am sure I will find that plenty enjoyable, girl."

Sansa blushed, thinking about a certain song. She gave up and passed the skin back to him, their fingers touching for a brief moment. A current, _something, _passed from his to hers and she snatched her hand back. The hound laughed. After he had drunk his second, third cup of wine, he sat back and gazed at her beneath hooded eyes. Sansa squirmed in her seat, sipping from her cup. The wine was tart and strong, the taste bringing tears to her eyes, but she blinked them away and took another swallow.

"What will we do in Braavos?" She finally asked, the question having been on her mind for days after he had disclosed his destination. She wasn't sure how they would live, where or in what capacity. _Will we still be uncle and niece? What else_, a voice niggled in her mind. _He doesn't want you, _it mocked. Sansa shook the thought from her mind.

"I don't know about you, little bird, but I intend to drink and fu-" He stopped himself in time, a smile in his eyes. Sansa's own eyes widened and a blush appeared on her cheeks. Suddenly he got up and left her to her embarrassment. _He doesn't want you, little bird, _the voice cackled. Sansa emptied her cup, and then filled another. She wanted to drown out the voice, her thoughts, _Sandor's words. _She saw him return from the corner of her eye as she was gulping down some more wine.

"You want to slow down, girl," he growled. Sansa set down her cup and turned her face up to look at him. From this angle, he looked bigger and more dangerous than usual, his broad figure looming over her. He turned to leave, making for the door before Sansa called out.

"Wait! Where are you-," she struggled out of her seat, but when she stood up, the world swam around her. She held on to the table to steady herself, the wine having gone straight to her head. She wasn't used to drinking, and never did, a habit she developed in her time with Littlefinger. _Never allow yourself to lose your senses, sweet Alayne, always keep your wits sharper than another man's sword; only then will you win._

Sansa felt the room swim before her eyes, the man standing in front of her going in and out of focus. The room was enveloped in a soft glow, and Sansa wondered why she hadn't fallen yet, before she noticed his muscled arms around her waist, holding her steady. She looked into his face, the scars, the scowl, and smiled.

"My Sandor," she whispered before everything turned black. His shocked face was the last thing she saw.

His face was the first thing she saw when she came to. She was lying on a bed, the straw in the mattress uncomfortably itchy against her skin. His face swam before her, slowly coming into focus. Sansa groaned and sat up.

"I told you to slow down, girl," the hound scolded. She wiped the sleep from her eyes, her tongue thick and scratchy in her mouth.

"I didn't have much..." She tried to protest, knowing it was futile. The hound snorted and pushed a skin if water into her hands.

"Drink this. It's only water, unfortunately," he laughed. Sansa blushed but drank the water gratefully. She noticed the hound waiting for her, and she wondered why.

"What?" She asked, alarmed. The hound stared a while longer before exhaling loudly and wringing his hands. Sansa started to worry, and repeated her question, this time with a little force.

"What! What's wrong?" His strange behaviour unnerved Sansa, and all kinds of thoughts flitted through her mind. _He's going to leave. He's going to leave you. HE DOESN'T WANT YOU! _Finally, the hound looked her in the face and blurted out:

"I found us passage for two on a ship heading for Braavos. I wasn't sure, I uh, will you come with me?" He turned his gaze to the skin of water, leaving Sansa to wonder whether he felt he needed wine. He's nervous. _Why?_

"Do you want me to come with you," Sansa asked quietly. The hound fixed his eyes on hers and shrugged.

"Only if you want to, Little bird." Sansa slumped back onto her bed. _He's indifferent, _she despaired_. He doesn't care. Maybe I should stay. I could stay and... And what? You don't know anybody. Those who know you, mean you harm. 'I'll keep you safe, Little Bird...I won't let them hurt you.' _She opened her eyes and found the hound staring at her with a strange expression on his face.

"Forget I asked," he grumbled turning to leave. Sansa couldn't let him leave. Not without her.

"I'd love to come with you." Sansa said in a small voice. The hound paused, his hand on the door. For a moment he stood silent, his back to her. Sansa thought he might turn around, but he didn't. Instead, he said,

"We leave in an hour." Pushing open the door, he stalked out without another word. Sansa hugged herself and giggled loudly, throwing herself on her back. That grin stayed with her for the next hour as she bathed, washed her hair and styled the waist -long tresses into submission, the memory of the smile in his voice warming her insides. _There's hope for you yet, Sansa._


	13. Chapter 13

The captain was a man of considerable girth, a Bravoosi with dark tanned skin and piercing blue eyes. He introduced himself as Riddle, drawing questioning looks from whomever he told. Standing with his thick arms crossed over his expansive chest, he looked on suspiciously as the man with the scarred face pushed the girl forward.

"Walk, damn it!" he said, his harsh words a stark contrast to his gentle push on her lower back. Sansa concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to look at the colossal ship in front of her. The vessel, a large, foreboding ship, was painted completely black, with the words 'The Black Maid' written in large silver letters on its side. Travelling on sea didn't daunt Sansa, but the prospect of boarding this particular ship scared her. _It's too big_, she thought. _It's a pirate ship! _Sansa stopped before the boardwalk, hesitant. She turned to see Sandor laughing at her.

"It's safe, right?" She asked for reassurance, but even that was too much for him to give her.

"As safe as any. Now walk before I throw you over my shoulder and carry you kicking and screaming, little bird," he said, before giving her another push. She looked up at the captain, who was watching her with a twinkle in her eye.

"The girl is scared!" He boomed out, causing several shipmates to stop what they were doing to look at her, some with venom in their eyes, others with something far scarier. Most were laughing at her, and Sansa resolved never to give them reason to laugh at her again. _Be strong, _she urged herself. _Sansa, be strong! _She straightened her back and walked on. Riddle was laughing at her, too. _Everyone is, _she realised, and with a jut of her lower lip, she mentally pulled herself together and purposefully walked on. _It's not too bad. Sandor will take care of me, _she thought. The ship itself was sturdy, the wood looked new to Sansa's untrained eye and she gained more confidence. Walking on the gangplank, she could hear the hound behind her. _You're fine, _she thought. _It'll be okay. _Sandor stopped to talk to Riddle, gesturing at Sansa while he spoke. She stopped to watch their exchange. They shook hands, Sandor towering over the other man. Moments later he was at her side, urging her to keep walking.

"What was that about?" She asked, looking at him from the corner of her eyes.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he replied, tight-lipped. The more he didn't say anything, they more she worried.

"Tell me, Sandor!" Sansa said, using his name. He stopped in his track.

"Little bird-" he growled threateningly, walking on. Sansa got the hint and stopped the questions. He led her to a small cabin, luxuriously decorated. It was warm and comfortable with fur bedding, carpeting and a wooden, beautifully carved chest. Sansa yelped in excitement.

"Oh it's wonderful!" She exclaimed, stroking the bedcovers. She turned to look at the hound, pride lifting the corners of his mouth.

"Thank you, Sandor," she said quietly to the ground. In two strides he was in front of her, lifting her chin.

"Only the best for the little Lady," he whispered. Sansa looked up into his eyes. _I'm no lady,_ she wanted to remind him, but found that she couldn't bring herself to. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She wondered what he would do if she reached out and touched his face.

"Where will you sleep?" She asked, breaking the silence that had crept up on them. He snapped to, stepping away from her again. Sansa felt like all the warmth in the room had been sucked out, leaving a cold, empty atmosphere.

"With the men," he said, and strode out if the room. Sansa lay down onto the bed, huddling under layers of fur, but the cold remained deep in her bones.

Sansa was sick the rest of that day and well into the night, unable to sleep. The rolling motion of the ship brought up her breakfast and the lunch the hound bought them back in the Saltpans. When her stomach was empty, Sansa thought the sickness would stop, but her body was wracked by dry heaves and Sansa's head was forever in the bucket next to her bed. When the hound brought her the bucket, she told him she wouldn't need it, but he just laughed and set it down on the dresser. She was grateful for that, at least, as not soon after that, they left port and the vomiting began. She hadn't touched the dinner the hound had brought her in the evening, and now the sight of it brought on another bout of heaves. Sansa was bent over the bucket, clutching it to her cheat, when Sandor walked in. When he saw her, he leaned back against the door, waiting for her to finish. Sansa blushed; embarrassed that he should see her at her most ungraceful. When she was done, he came over and sat on the bed, handing her a cup of water.

"Thank you," Sansa croaked, painfully aware of the stench in her room. The thought almost made her sick again.

"Drink up, little bird," he said, and Sansa drained the cup. It didn't taste like plain water, and when he saw the question in her eyes, he chuckled.

"To help you sleep, girl." Sansa wasn't sure what he added to the water, but she felt herself getting drowsy. Sandor pushed her back on to the bed, forcing the bucket from her tight grasp and setting it down on the floor. He lifted her legs onto the bed, then pulled the covers over her, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. Sansa turned her face into his hand, marveling at how hands so big and calloused could be so gentle. For a moment, he cradled her face, then with a final stroke if her cheek, he straightened.

"I'll come to see you in the morning," he promised, and left before Sansa could form a reply. She sighed to herself, sinking deeper into the soft furs. The cold had gone, replaced by warmth Sansa hadn't felt since she was a girl. It was replaced by hope. She sighed pulled the covers up to her chin, falling into a deep, peaceful slumber.

The next morning, Sansa woke up extra early. She felt tired, but the thought of Sandor seeing her like he saw her last night forced her to get up. Sansa quickly washed her face in the basin of water, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair. Then she grabbed the bucket and took it out on deck. The deck was empty, so Sansa made her way to the hull of the boat. Looking out across all that water, Sansa's breath stilled. She almost forgot to breathe, the rolling water captivating her undivided attention. Sansa leaned out a little and suddenly felt like she flying. _Arya would've loved this, _she thought. A tear rolled down her cheek and she quickly wiped it away. She didn't know how long she'd been standing there, but suddenly the sun was high up in the sky and the water sparkled as if a million diamonds were dancing on its surface. Sansa felt exhilarated and surprised that this beauty had made her sick just the day before.

"Little bird," she heard behind her, and she whipped around, knowing who that voice belonged to. The hound stood before her carrying two cups of wine and passed one to Sansa. She took it gratefully and turned back to look at the water, but she sensed every one his movement. When he stepped into her peripheral, she slyly looked at him from underneath her lashes. He was standing on her left, the right side of his face, the scarred side, facing her. She saw the wonder grow in his eyes and smiled.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asked, stepping closer to him. He briefly looked down at her, than returned his gaze to the blue sea.

"I s'pose," he grumbled. Sansa let out a little sigh and sipped on the wine, slowly inching towards him.

"Look at how the sunlight is reflected off the water. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?" Sansa moved closer to him till her shoulder touched his arm. He tore his eyes from the sea and looked at her. His gaze was hotter than the sun beating down on them, and after a moment he turned back.

"Yes," he said. Sansa shrugged and silently dared herself to take his hand. _Take it! _After an internal battle, she drained her cup and freed her left hand. She wiped nervous sweat from her palms and with a silent prayer to the Gods, she reached out and grasped his hand. She could sense his body tense up, his eyes glued on the water and for a moment Sansa thought he might fling her hand away. To her surprise, he didn't, holding her small hand in his own large one. Sansa sneaked a look up at him and when she saw him smile, the flicker of hope from last night roared into life, consuming her entire body. They stood there, silently holding hands while the wind whipped at their hair and clothes when Riddle called for Sandor. Sansa could feel his hand flex and his nostrils flared in annoyance. He turned towards her.

"Go back to your room," he said casting a glance at some of the sailors standing around. Sansa nodded and he walked off. She stood still for several minutes, imagining his hand still holding tight to hers. Then, with a sigh, she turned her back on the sea and set out for her cabin, a slight spring in her step the only reminder of her happiness.


	14. Chapter 14

"Gods!"

Sandor leaned against her door, listening to the soft humming coming from inside. He rubbed his hands across his face before pushing away from the door. The little bird was killing him with her sweet words, her sweeter smiles and now she was holding his hand? She was probably just holding it for comfort, yet the way she looked at him told him otherwise. _She wants me_, he thought. Unbelievable as it seemed, the little bird had grown attached to her dog, and now she thought she _loved_ him. He walked across the deck and sat down on a bench, wishing his racing heart would slow down to a normal pace.

"Goodmorning, ser." Sandor looked up to find the captain standing before him. He grunted a greeting in return, hoping the old man would just go away. Instead, he sat down next to Sandor and offered him a wineskin. Sandor took it gratefully, swallowing deep before handing it back.

"Tough morning?" The captain asked. Sandor looked at him from the corner of his eyes, wondering how he could tell the captain to fuck off without being thrown overboard. Finally he sighed.

"Not for me, no," he said, wishing this would be the end of it.

"For the girl, yes?" The captain pressed. Sandor took the proffered wineskin again and drank.

"Yes."

"Why do you leave Westeros?" Gods, does this man ever shut up?

"Do you want a lie?" Sandor asked. The man shook his head. "Then perhaps you shouldn't ask questions best answered with untruths. And I'm not a ser," he growled, losing his patience, but the captain merely laughed.

"I see. It is a secret, no?" The man's blue eyes twinkled in friendly mischief, and Sandor couldn't help but smirk.

"Something like that."

"And the room- _my room_- it's to her liking, yes?"

"It better be, for what I'm paying you," Sandor rasped, and once more the old captain laughed his booming laugh. Bleeding Hells!

"Ah, yes. Well, I was unwilling to part with my quarters, even less so for free. The sleeping quarters below are quite uncomfortable."

Sandor knew. When he had inspected the ship, he had tested the beds and found them all lacking. _Well, lacking when it concerned the little bird._ The rooms were small, sparse and damp, the beds rickety and mattresses lumpy. There was no way he would allow his little lady to sleep in a shithole She had had enough of that in their travels. So he shelled out an extortionate amount to rent out the captain's room, which had looked heavenly compared to the others. It had a lock, too, and he advised Sansa to make use of it.

"Was there something you wanted from me?" Sandor asked, recalling how Riddle had interrupted Sansa and him earlier. The man fixed Sandor with steely blue eyes.

"You go to Braavos, yes?" Sandor didn't know where this was heading, but nodded in answer, anyway.

"Excuse an old man for making, how you call it, assumptions, but you run away from Westeros, no?" Sandor growled in response but otherwise refused to answer. What business was it of his?

"I see. Perhaps you know the Dragon Queen is in Braavos?" Sandor's head whipped towards the captain and saw the truth in his words. The Dragon Queen is in Braavos? What in the Seven Hell's is she doing there?

"And why do you think we care?" He replied, feigning disinterest. The captain nodded slowly, though his eyes shone knowingly.

"Perhaps you don't, Sandor Clegane, better known as The Hound. Perhaps you think she won't know your face, as you thought I did not. But you are a known man, _ser._ Only a blind man would not recognise you. Or the Stark girl." Sandor's eyes widened a fraction, his hand already reaching for his sword before Riddle clapped him on the shoulder.

"Ha! No need, mystery man. Riddle knows everything, but tells nothing." And with a final squeeze on Sandor's shoulder, he stood up. "But I must leave you to your thoughts; I have a ship to run," the captain said, and much to Sandor's relief, he left.

Sandor got up too, making for his room below deck. It may not have been good enough for Sansa, but it was more than Sandor needed. He sat on the small bed facing the small window, overlooking the sea. When she had asked him whether he had ever seen anything more beautiful than the sparkling water, he had answered truthfully. The water had looked magnificent but the blue of her eyes outshone the sea with all it's diamonds. And though the sound of the waves was soothing, nothing calmed a man's soul as the Little Bird did, her small sighs a song in themselves. He had said yes, because standing there with the wind in her hair, Sansa had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.


	15. Chapter 15

They had been onboard the Black Maid just over a sennight when the storm hit. Sansa had been reading one of Riddle's books to keep her busy, attempting to break the dull routine of sleeping and eating. An old tome on the history of Westeros, it was the only book whose writing she recognised. She was brushing up on the Targaeryen rule, though most of it she remembered from her lessons with Septa Mordane, when a knock came on the door. Sansa put the book away, glad for the interruption, straightened up and bid them come in. Sandor opened the door, and Sansa knew something was wrong. _Since when does he knock? _It was when he shuffled in that she knew for sure. He never shuffled anywhere, his walk always having been a purposeful stride.

"What? What is it? Is it the ship? Are we sinking?" Sansa shrieked out her last question, panic clutching at her throat. She didn't know the goings on of the vessel, her only interactions being with Sandor, whose conversation had lately been restricted to demanding she "Eat" and growling "Little bird..." when her questions became too much. He looked visibly shaken.

"Tell me, please," Sansa moaned, painfully aware of sounding like the little bird he said she was. He rubbed his face for a moment, then dropped his arms limply to his side.

"A storm is coming, little bird. A big one," he said, gauging her face for fear. Sansa delivered, her eyes widening in shock.

"A storm? Are you certain?" She asked, wringing her hands. She sat down on the bed. _Storm, Storm, Storm. _The thought thundered through her mind. Sansa could hear him talking, but she paid little attention to his reassurance. _We're going to die, _she thought. She could feel Sandor move, and the bed croaked under his weight when he sat down heavily next to her. He awkwardly placed a hand on her shoulder, his face turned away from her. She could sense his discomfort and made an effort to keep her voice steady

"It won't be so bad, will it?" she said, her voice a little too pitchy, the words coming out strangled. Sansa cleared her throat and tried again. For some reason, she felt as though he would be more at ease if he knew she was okay. She put her hand on his, pulling it from her shoulder into her lap. She held his hands in hers, running her thumb across his knuckles. He slowly turned his face towards her, and when she did the same, they were mere inches away from each other. He stared down at her, his breathing ragged, and she instinctively licked her lips. _This is it_, she thought. He must! When he didn't make a move, Sansa sighed in exasperation. She was tired of waiting, but coupled with her unwillingness to give him up, she had no other choice. Holding his hand in a tight grip with her left, she raised her right hand and brought it to his face. She felt him tense up, and gave him a little smile.

"Sandor," she whispered, gathering her courage. She was scared she wouldn't be able to do it, it going against every one of her Septa's lessons on being a lady. _But you're not a lady anymore, _Sansa. _You're nobody. _With that, she raised her face to Sandor's and softly placed her lips on his. He was as still as a statue, but when Sansa placed his hand on her waist and her own around his neck, he groaned. Sansa could feel his resolve break and pulled him closer, running her tongue over his lips. She could feel the ragged texture of his burns but she didn't care. He pulled her tighter and Sansa responded by running her fingers through his hair. She gave his dark locks a slight tug before placing her flat hand tenderly against the side of his face with the burns. She felt him drop his hand from her hips and move to straighten up, their lips disengaging. Sansa pulled him closer, so close that she had the lean back onto her bed, his torso lying on top of her.

"Little bird..." He warned, but made no move to get up. She gazed up at his face, the confusion etched clearly into his features, but the twinkle in his eyes was undeniable.

"What?" Sansa teased, running her arms over his broad shoulders before giving his thick arms squeeze. She felt the muscles ripple under her touch and smiled.

"Be careful," he said, his eyes roaming her face, his hands tangled in her hair. Sansa held his gaze. His body felt heavy on top of hers, but the weight wasn't crushing. Instead, it brought her comfort_. Don't ever leave. We could stay like this, you and me._

"You won't hurt me," she finally said, and recognition burned in his eyes.

"No, little bird. I won't hurt you."

Suddenly his hands were tangled in her hair and his mouth was above hers, his tongue probing. She opened her mouth and felt his warm tongue greet her own, their slick surfaces kissing each other within their kiss. Sansa's hands roamed all the places she could reach and longed for the places she couldn't. Their kiss turned deeper and Sansa inhaled a heady scent of sweat, soap and Sandor. She had never smelled anything sweeter. Sandor broke the kiss and trailed tiny pecks on her cheeks, her eyelids, her brows, before attacking her neck with long, trailing kisses. Sansa moaned underneath his touch, lifting her head to expose her throat. He nibbled on the skin of her neck, soft, playful bites that made her giggle. He growled and licked her clavicle, then ran a trail to just below her ear. When he took her earlobe into his mouth, she felt the sensation throughout her entire body and a dull throb developed in her crotch. Sansa had never experienced anything like this, and she pulled Sandor's face back to her own and kissed him once, twice, three times before cradling his head on her chest. His arms snaked underneath her and they lay hugging like that on the bed.

"My Sandor," Sansa whispered, stroking his face. She could feel the uneven skin underneath her fingers, but didn't pay it any mind. She loved him the more for it, and she thought Sandor knew, because he did not resist her touch. In that moment, as they lay there, Sansa knew that she would never love another man like she loves Sandor. She smiled to think about how she'd thought she loved Joffrey. Her feelings for the dead king were nothing compared to his dog, and Sansa clutched Sandor tighter. She was beginning to think he had fallen asleep, his arms encircling her, but when someone shouted his name outside her door, he was up in a flash. Sansa sat up.

"Don't go," she whispered against his shoulder. Sandor rubbed his face with both hands before running them through his hair. He gave her a smile, a watery turn of his lips, and pushed off the bed.

"The storm," he said, but Sansa felt it was more to him than to her. He strode towards the door, crossing the room in one step, it seemed. Sansa got up after him. With his hand on the doorknob he turned around.

"I'll come check on you, soon." Sansa closed the distance between them and stood on her toes. She kissed him on his cheek, the skin of his burns softer than any velvet she had known. He tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear.

"Soon." He repeated, and Sansa was alone again. Flinging herself onto her bed, she fell asleep, vaguely wondering why the ship was so quiet.

Sansa hadn't been aware that the ship was rocking so violently until she fell off the bed, legs tangled in furs. She sat up groggily, rubbing her lower back before the conversation with Sandor came back to her. _Storm! _She struggled to her feet, trying to keep her balance on a floor that swayed heavily beneath her. Reaching for the wall, she walked to the door, desperately willing herself to keep upright. She stepped out to see men running manically to and fro, a stifling sense of panic thick in the air. Sansa couldn't see a thing in the dark, so she held out her arm and grabbed hold of the first person she found. She felt someone's shoulder underneath her hands and pulled at his shirt.

"Have you seen Sa- my uncle?" She asked, but the man ignored her question and hurried off, ripping his shirt from her grasp. She quickly found another man, this one younger than the first.

"Have you seen my uncle?" She asked desperately, her fingers digging into his arm to prevent him from leaving. The man squinted at her.

"On deck, but it's best that you retu-" Sansa was gone before he could finish his sentence. She felt her way onto the deck, bumping into sailors as they rushed from one place to another. The deck was slippery with water, and twice Sansa felt her feet fall out beneath her. _Sandor, _she thought. _I have to find him. _He had promised to come see her, but now a vision of him being thrown overboard replayed itself in her mind. Rain fell down on them and Sansa was soaked through within seconds, her hair plastered to her head. She grabbed on to the railing, seawater spraying her whenever a wave crashed onto the side of the ship. Sansa lifted her face, the cold spray washing away her worry.

"Man overboard!" Someone shouted over the din and Sansa froze, the anxiety flooding back.

"Sandor!" She said aloud, her knuckles turning white as she tightened her grip on the ship.

"No, not me, little bird," came a soft growl from behind her, and Sansa twirled around. She saw him then, rain and sweat and blood running down his face. She jumped up and launched at him, small hands beating on his cheat fruitlessly.

"You said you'd come back to me!" She shrieked as he laughed down at her in surprise. He let her vent her anger on him for a moment.

"Someone might think you cared." He said, catching her wrists. Sansa looked up at him, bewildered.

"Someone might be right," she admitted, his hands keeping her steady on a ship that was anything but stable. He blew air out through his nose, reminding her of Stranger below in the stables. He pulled her to him; hand on her wet hair as he held her tight against his chest. Again a yell was heard over the confusion announcing another lost sailor. Sandor pulled away from their embrace and grabbed her hand, leading her back to her cabin. Once inside, the darkness swallowed them both. He let go of her hand and Sansa sensed his movements as he turned around to face her.

"The little bird cares about her dog," he stated, but Sansa heard the question in his voice. She realised he wanted, needed her to care about him as much as she wanted him to care about her. The thought made her smile a wide grin.

"You're not a dog," she said simply and his breath became ragged.

"I've always been the hound; it's all I have ever known." She sensed him shrug and stepped closer to him. From this proximity, she thought she could hear his heart beating in his chest. He took an intake of air when he felt her hand on his face, brushing his wet hair back from his scars.

"You were the hound, Sandor, just as I was the little bird. But we're free, now. Free from _them,_" she said pointedly. He sighed.

"And now, well, now you are my Sandor. And I, your Sansa." She had stepped even closer, her body pressed up against the length of his body. All that separated their skin were the layers of clothes, wet through. Sansa felt his body heat soak through her dress and caress her body, and she pressed against him closer. She felt him raise his hand, and a second later she felt it on her own, taking it away from his face. He brought it up to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers.

"Your Sandor," he said. Sansa had forgotten about the storm. About the men who had drowned, cold and alone in the violent black sea. Because at this moment, standing in this cold, dark room with Sandor, she had never felt more alive.


	16. Chapter 16

4 Years Earlier

_Run. Run! Don't look back. You have to keep going! _Alayne stumbled on, dragging her blistered feet behind her. Twigs and branches scratched at her skirt, everywhere, dragging sharp points across her face like fingernails. Alayne kept on. You have to keep going. _They will kill you if they catch you. You mustn't let them catch you! _Alayne Stone collapsed in a breathless pile of soiled grey and white silk, unable to move her legs. She'd been running for days, barely stopping for a rest. Her wedding dress hung from her in rags. _I am his, and I ran. _Alayne broke out in ragged sobs. Holding her face in her hands, she cried for the first time in a long time. Alayne cried for her brothers and for her little sister. For her mother and father, and even Lady. She cried for him, also, unwilling to admit it to herself. _She should've gone with him, _Alayne thought bitterly, cursing Sansa's stupidity. _You should've gone with him, _a voice mocked, but Alayne shook her head, her brown hair falling forwards. _Brown, _she thought. _Of course. _Alayne scurried over to a bush and hid behind it, thinking she might get some sleep. She was cold, hungry and had no idea where she was; the least she could do was rest. Just as she lay down, her arm folded underneath her hair, she heard a voice. Alayne froze. A part of her considered not doing anything, but another part, the cold, hungry and desperate side of her jumped up. _What's the worst that could happen? They might even kill me, _she thought, and was shocked to find that she welcomed it. She would be with her family again. She could play with Lady and bounce Rickon on her lap. She could even fight with Arya again, and Alayne smiled, before she remembered she didn't have a family. Still, she called out.

"Hallo!" She said, scrambling up and walking from behind the bushes. Two men were sitting on the ground sharing bread, their horses tied to trees next to them. They looked up in surprise.

"I, I don't mean you any harm," she said, and they burst out laughing.

"She says she don't, mean us any 'arm," the older man hooted, and the younger one chuckled. Alayne stood her ground.

"I could kill you both in an instant if I wanted to," she cut through their mirth. They became quiet and the younger one stood up, revealing himself to be several inches taller than her. He wore a strange hat on his head, an ugly leathery thing Alayne thought common folk might wear on the farms. She stared him down.

"You think you could kill me?" He asked, a cold smile on his face. Alayne crossed her arms, thinking back to all the lessons Mason had given her. Living with Littlefinger was torture, but her only friend was Mason, the blacksmith and she had spent most of her time with him. She had asked him for lessons on how to fight with a sword but they found she was hopeless in hand-to-hand combat. They then tried archery, but Alayne found the bows cumbersome and impractical. _She couldn't walk around with arrows peeking out from behind her back, could she? _But her aim was incredible and she was quick on her feet, so they decided on daggers.

"They're as deadly close up as they are from far, and you can hide them in your pretty dresses under your pretty little sleeves," he had said, laughing. Alayne agreed, thinking how pretty Petyr's throat would look as she opened it up. Now she remembered how pretty it _did_ look underneath her knife as blood spurted onto her wedding gown.

Alayne sized up the man standing before her. Then, in a flash, she pulled out a dagger from her sleeve and it was out of her hand before he knew what had happened. A heartbeat later he raised his arm, feeling his head for his hat. It was gone, and he turned to see it pinned to the tree behind him, her dagger still quivering.

"Three inches lower and you would be dead," she shrugged. The man's mouth fell open and the older gentleman clapped his swollen hands in glee. He laughed loud and long, showing his toothless grin and took a swig from his skin.

"Come here, girl. What's your name?" He asked, patting a spot on the ground next to him. Alayne quickly brushed past the other man who was still staring at her, bewildered and went over to the old man, after standing on her toes and pulling her dagger from the tree. She caught the hat before it fell, admired the hole where the dagger had penetrated the leather and threw it on the ground where the man had been sitting. Alayne was about to tell him her name when she stopped herself_. Not Alayne,_

"...Nym," she blurted out, seeing Arya's face swim before her eyes. Arya had loved Nymeria, and Alayne understood why. There was a certain comfort to be found in being able to fend for yourself. For so long Alayne, and Sansa both had depended on others, depended on their mercy, unable to protect themselves. That was not the case anymore, and Alayne embraced her new-found strength.

"Nym?" The old man said, thoughtfully, before shrugging and giving her a warm smile. He reminded her of her friend Jeyne Pool's father, the castellan at Winterfell, a big man with twinkly blue eyes. But he was older, his back was hunched and his movements were slow. Alayne smiled back.

"My name is John, and this here," he gestured at the younger man, "...is Pat." Alayne heard Pat mumble a greeting and she smiled at him in apology. She then turned to look at their food, her belly rumbling hungrily. John saw her and broke his bread in half, throwing it into her direction. Alayne caught it deftly and bit into it. It was stale but she didn't care. It filled her stomach and when she was done, he gave her some more.

"Quite an appetite you have," he remarked not unkindly. Alayne blushed in response, keeping her head down. She was painfully aware if the dark brown spots on her dress where Baelish's blood had dried. Alayne squirmed under John's scrutiny.

"Rabbit," she explained awkwardly, folding the fabric of her dress so most of the blood was concealed. John nodded slowly, though she saw the disbelief in his eyes. She quickly finished her bread, taking a swig from the skin he held out to her. The wine tasted like heaven in her dry mouth, despite the tartness. She drank some more, then stood up.

"Thank you," she said, not knowing what else to say. _You should never forget your courtesies, little bird. _The two men stared at her. John was the first to speak.

"You have anywhere to go, girl?" He asked. Alayne was quiet before mumbling a sad little 'no'. He nodded as if be already knew, then stroked his scraggly grey beard.

"You hunt?" He finally said. Alayne nodded.

"Well?"

"As well as any man." She shrugged. Sansa had never known how to hunt, but Alayne found it easy. She had caught two rabbits in the last week or so when the hunger became unbearable. She could never get used to killing, so she didn't do it unless she absolutely had to_. And I had to_, she thought, thinking back to Lord Petyr. _I had to! _John was saying something.

"...You could work for me, if you like. Mostly cooking and cleaning, but I might need you to hunt sometimes. Pat here works for me at the inn, too, but I could use a young girl around the inn, to keep the place tidy." Alayne leapt up at the offer.

"Yes, I'll do it. Thank you, John." She said, gratefully. _A place to stay, a few coins in my pocket. What else is there for me? _Alayne thought she might be happy there, and no one would know her. _Neither would they look for me in an inn, _she thought. Though the war was over, for now, the Dragon Queen having destroyed the Lannisters, she could never go home to Winterfell. Queen Danaerys had given the North to a man named Mormont. Alayne had met him before, back when she was Sansa. He had come to stay at Winterfell, newly married. His wife was young, beautiful, and Sansa had watched her every graceful move admiringly. But Winterfell was gone, and her family with it. _I'm a nobody, now, _Alayne thought. _And what better place for a nobody than at an inn, among the other nobodies?_

Alayne smiled and sat back down, taking another swig from John's skin. He started telling her about the inn, about the customers he's been having lately, all travelling South to King's Landing for a tourney. He talked and talked some more, Pat listening absentmindedly._ I could make an honest living,_ she thought._ It won't be so bad. You should've gone with him, _a voice interrupted, but Alayne ignored it. _It wasn't me he offered to take with him_, she countered. It was another girl, in another time. _Both long gone. _


	17. Chapter 17

After several more days of storms, the weather finally settled down. Sansa could feel the collective sigh of relief the shipmates let out and noticed that the atmosphere had shifted with the peaceful lull of the ship. They weren't scared for their lives anymore, and Sansa could sympathise with them, finally being at rest after living in fear for so many years. The first morning of calm, Sansa left her room for the first time since the storms began to enjoy the peaceful sea, staring out at the sparkling blue in wonder. She contemplated how something so beautiful could be so deadly, and her mind turned to the brief King Joffrey. Shaking his memory out of her head, she sighed and watched the clear blue sky, not knowing where it began and the sea ended. I could get lost in here and never be found, she thought, almost giddily. She thought about their new life in Braavos, all the new things she would see and the old things she would learn to forget. _I could forget about everything,_ she thought- _I could be a brand new person and nobody would know me_. She thought of her sister Arya, who had dreamt of travelling to the Free Cities. Arya had told her some gruesome stories, to be sure, yet there were gems of beauty in the ugly things Arya had spoken of. Like how the sun shone bright everyday, though it beat down on the backs of slaves. Or how the waters were the clearest blue you could imagine, and Sansa tried not to think about the man-eating creatures that lived in them. Sansa wondered whether she would see the dolphins Jeyne had told her about. She would've liked to see them, and then perhaps, if she ever saw Jeyne again, she would tell her all about it. Sansa hugged herself and stared out, the breeze a whispering embrace against her back.

Suddenly, a tiny black spot marred the horizon and Sansa stilled. She leaned out and squinted at the approaching vessel, sure that it was coming at them at break-neck speed. When they were younger, Arya had told her about pirates who stalked the seas, taking prisoners and selling them on as slaves. Sansa quickly turned, looking for Sandor. There were several men breaking their fasts on deck, chewing on bread as they pulled on ropes and secured knots, some swapping stories about the friends they had lost. Riddle stood among them, barking orders and laughing at their simultaneously.

"Captain," she interrupted, standing awkwardly before the group of men. Some looked at her in surprise; those who believed her to be the source of their misfortune stared at her angrily. Riddle turned his face towards her, a question burning in his sparkling blue eyes, the same colour of the sea.

"Captain, there is a ship," she stuttered, uncomfortable underneath his gaze. His eyes snapped open and he twirled around, shouting at his men to raise the oars.

"Show me!" he all but yelled, and Sansa led him to the back of the ship where, she had been standing earlier. When she pointed at the spot where she had seen the unwelcome vessel, it had been joined by a dozen or so others. Her heartbeat stopped as alarm showed itself in Riddle's face.

"Go back to your room," he said quickly, turning away. Sansa did as he told her, passing men preparing swords and bows. She shut herself in her room and leaned against the door, a sense of foreboding stifling the air. How can something so beautiful bring nothing but pain and terror, she thought, shutting her eyes. Once more, her thoughts turned to Joffrey, but this time, his face was replaced by Daenerys Stormborn, _The Mother of Dragons and Queen of Westeros._

Sansa had blocked the door, daggers in hand as she waited for pirates to capture her. She thought she might kill some, but mentally prepared herself for captivity. _It'll be just like King's Landing_, she joked with herself, but her eyes clouded over in anger at the memory. She stood there, clutching her knives to her chest, when she heard a loud scraping sound to her left. She thought it might be a ship had hit theirs, but the notion was not a welcome one. Then came a deafening bang of something hitting the boat and Sansa had a hard time breathing. The stories Arya had told her flooded back to her, of men with tattooed faces and young sex slaves. Sansa had squealed whenever Arya succeeded in scaring her, but now the thought was all too real and Sansa had no squeals left. The men above had suddenly stilled, and apprehension twisted in her belly. _Why are they not fighting? There is supposed to be shouting, _she thought. Sansa just stood there a while, holding her breath as she listened out for any sound of resistance. When she couldn't stand the wait, she pushed open the door. Walking towards the deck, she heard a voice, the speech thickened by the wood. She emerged on deck and was surprised to see the men kneeling, heads bowed, Sandor among them. Anger flared within her at the sight of their collective submission. _Are they so craven?_

"What are you all doing? Pick up your swords and fight!" She yelled, raising her daggers. She saw Sandor's face lift up, his eyes imploring her to stop and the little shake of his head he gave stopped her in her path. _Something is not right, _thought Sansa. What could make an entire ship of sailors fall to their knees? _What could make Sandor fall to his knees? _A dark haired man stepped forward, brandishing a great, curved sword, nothing like Sansa had ever seen before. Sansa took a step back in surprise and raised her daggers, prepared to throw one in his eye if he took a move towards her.

"Bow before Khaleesi," he threatened, his speech guttural and odd in Sansa's ears. _Khaleesi? _Sansa held her ground, refusing to bow down to some up-start pirate.

"If he wants me to bow, he better cut off my legs," she replied, gripping her knives tightly. The man smiled, revealing a row of perfectly straight teeth.

"That can be arranged, brave girl," he said cheerily. He raised his sword and brought it down in a great swoop, but Sansa was faster and jumped over the arc of his sword as he brought it down to her legs. Before he could swipe at her again, a clang was heard and Sandor was by her side, the swords singing as they kissed. The sight reminded her of what had happened at her father's tourney, when Sandor had jumped in to protect Loras Tyrell.

"Rakharo, stop!" The voice was soft and girly, yet the authority it carried made even Sansa stand up straighter. The man instantly stepped back and dropped his sword, Sandor following suit. Sansa still had no idea what was going on. A young woman emerged from the group of pirates, with long white hair and big, violet eyes. Sansa's own eyes widened. The crown she wore gave her away, though the physical features of a Targaryen were hard not to recognise. Sansa was vaguely aware that she should curtsy, but the surprise of her appearance made her forget about her lessons with Septa Mordane. _The Dragon Queen, here! _Suddenly she felt a tugging at her dress and looked down at Sandor, whose eyes were telling her to '_fucking kneel'_. Bowing low in a graceful dip, she lowered her eyes and said, "Your Grace," with as much reverence as she could muster. The young Queen watched her impassively and Sansa flushed under her gaze.

"What brings such a sweet girl on a ship to Braavos?" Queen Daenarys asked, a twinkle in her eyes. She walked forward and stopped in front of Sansa, reaching up to give Sansa's hair a stroke.

"And such pretty hair! Tell me girl, the truth, what takes you to Braavos?"

Sansa didn't know what to say. She wasn't even sure the other woman knew who she was and even if she did, what she wanted of her. _My family is dead. I killed my husband. You gave away my home? _Sansa looked up into the young Queen's face and felt not one trace of envy. There was a time when all she wanted was to marry Joffrey and one day be queen, but that day was long gone. Now she just wanted to rest. To be _happy_.

"A new life," she admitted. That was why she was going to Braavos. Westeros had nothing but heartache for her, everything a constant reminder of what she once had, and lost. The queen seemed to understand, nodded and turned to face Sandor.

"You," she said, pointing accusingly at the man kneeling besides Sansa. She heard him grunt as he got back up on his feet, straightening his back languidly.

"You are the hound. Sandor Clegane?" She asked, but she already knew. Sansa had a sudden desire to slap the young woman, angry at the name she called him. _He is no longer the hound,_ she thought, fiercely protective of the man she loved.

"What of it?" He replied insolently, and Sansa stepped back onto his foot, digging her heel in his toes in warning. _Well, at least I kept my insolent urges private._ The Dragon Queen didn't seem to mind as she turned to speak to a man, a tall, older man dressed in rich fabrics, a ruby-encrusted scabbard hanging off his hip. The man bent low as he whispered in her ear, but he looked around, his gaze pausing on Sansa. They looked eachother in the eyes and Sansa almost gasped in recognition. Ser Jorah Mormont? A feral instinct to kill him overwhelmed her, though upon consideration, it wasn't him who stole her home. Still, she had to resist the urge to decorate his eyes with her daggers.

Sansa turned away from him to look at the Queen's other men, and recognized another familiar face. Ser Barristan Selmy. They had looked everywhere for him when Joffrey dismissed the knight from the King's Guard under pretenses of retirement. Barristan had walked out of court that day with his pride intact, refusing their offer of land and honour. Sansa was glad to see him doing what he loved. Ser Barristan leaned down and mumbled something to in the Queen which made her look at Sansa with eyes a mix of suspicion and curiosity. Sansa squirmed under their gaze and looked around at the other men Daenerys had brought with them. Some were tall and hairless, wearing tall pointy hats with long flowing hair tied to the end. Others wore a patchwork of leather, similar to the man who had spoken to her in that strange accent earlier. Sansa marveled at the variety of people in the Queen's council, but tried her best to look bored, as Sandor did. _Perhaps he really is bored,_ she wondered, but no- she was sure it was all an act. The Queen turned to them once more.

"We go to Braavos. All of us. Hound," she said, pointing at Sandor. "Go with Ser Barristan. And as for you," she turned to face Sansa, her eyes softening.

"I am told you have lost a lot in this war. _Too much_. I have something that will lift your heart, brave girl." She held out her hand. "Come, let me show you."

Sansa hesitated for a moment before she grabbed hold of the Queen's hand. With one more look at Riddle, mouthing her thanks, she was lead to the Queen's ship, Sandor stalking behind her. She gave the man named Rakharo a final withering look, hoping he'd fall overboard and the man-eating fish would rip him to pieces, and turned to look at the girl whose hand was in her own. She looked not much older than Sansa, yet this girl was Queen of Westeros. Sansa smiled at herself. _It would be nice to have a friend, though she will have to respect Sandor before I can respect her. _


	18. Chapter 18

_Any moment now, she'll come out of her room wielding her little needles like the seamstress from the deepest Hell,_ Sandor thought to himself as he took a knee. It wasn't long after the fleet had been spotted that they realised it was the Royal fleet; Queen Daenerys' own ships. They had slowed down to meet them, and when _The Black Maid_ was surrounded, the Queen's men bridged the Maid and boarded. Sandor recognised the Dothraki men, even the Unsullied guards didn't go unnoticed, yet his eyes were drawn to the two Westerosi men who jumped on deck with an agility that showed no sign of their age. Barristan Selmy hadn't changed a bit; even the white cloak still hung off his shoulders. Sandor grinned and looked at the other man, whom he saw was Jorah Mormont. Sandor briefly wondered what he was doing here, considering Winterfell and the North was his. _He'd probably follow the Dragon bitch to the end of the world_, Sandor thought, but his grin fell when he realised he would do the same for Sansa. _Fools_, he thought, _the both of us._

True to his prediction, the Little Bird burst onto the deck, daggers in hand. He noted the look of confusion when she saw the men on their knees, then yelled for them to fight. _Brave little bird_, he thought, but shook his head at her anyway. She may not have noticed that the Queen stood less than 10 feet away from her but the Dothraki soldier was quick to remind her to kneel. Except she didn't understand the word he had used to describe the Dragon Bitch, and Sandor grinned when she called the Queen an 'up-start pirate' but it quickly fell off his face when she suggested the horsefucker cut her knees off. Anger bubbled inside him when the bastard conceded, and Sandor was up in a flash, his sword out to block the vicious slash the Screamer aimed at his little bird's head. Their swords danced for a moment, the greatsword and arakh, but Sandor's mission to kill the fucker who had threatened Sansa was rudely interrupted by the Queen, who yelled for them to stop so quietly it was almost a whisper. _You're gonna need to speak up, girl, if you mean to rule empires._

Sandor dropped back down on his knee. _The girl may be a bitch but she's still Queen,_ he thought as his knees resisted the hard floor. He noticed Sansa had made no move, so he tugged on her skirt. Only then did she curtsy, an elegant dip of her body that showed her for what she truly was; a lady. Sandor marvelled at her grace, unable to pay attention to the Queen and her whispers. He found he didn't care a whit, only that he had to stay with the Little Bird. He needed to be around her; in any capacity she would have him in. He grunted as he pushed himself back on his feet, towering over the Queen as she came to stand before him.

"You," she said ungracefully, and Sandor thought how his Little Bird would make a better Queen than Daenerys did. She was beautiful, he had to admit, yet her beauty paled in comparison to Sansa's. Her white hair didn't stand a chance against the fire that radiated from Sansa, and her violet eyes were dull where Sansa's glittered like sapphires. He felt a fierce sense of pride then, his chest swelling up as he remembered that she loved him, _no one else_. The realisation, as much as it made him puff up like a green boy who'd just had his first cunt, made him callous.

"What of it?" He said and felt Sansa bring her heel down on his toes, hard. He grunted in pain as she reminded him of his manners. _She wants me to chirp as she does_, he thought, smirking. _Not a fucking chance, girl. I'll kneel, sure, but fuck if you'll hear me exchanging pleasantries with the Dragon Bitch._ The Queen went back to stand with Lord Mormont and Ser Barristan as they whispered some more. He felt their gazes on him and arranged his face to take on a look of extreme boredom. The Queen stepped forward again as Sandor raised his hand to inspect his fingernails. She said something and pointed at him, but he only started paying attention when she turned to Sansa. She sounded almost sympathetic when she spoke to her, and his eyes widened when she offered Sansa her hand. The Queen led Sansa away and there was nothing Sandor could do but follow meekly at his Lady's heels.

Once they had boarded the Queen's own ship, they were separated, and Sandor followed Ser Barristan who led him to the hull. They stood side by side for a moment and Sandor wondered what Selmy wanted from him. _Whatever it is, he better hope it doesn't involve leaving Sansa, _he thought, sure that he would throw the old knight overboard if he gave that suggestion.

"Last we heard of you, you were in some sort of monastery," Ser Barristan said, catching Sandor off guard. _How in the Seven Hell's would they know that?_ He had been on the Quiet Isle since the little Wolf Bitch had left him for dead, yet he didn't know how he knew, or why it was of any importance to him.

"I changed my mind about becoming a septon when they said I'd have to give up whores." Ser Barristan gave an unamused smile and Sandor laughed at the man's discomfort.

"Where did you find the Stark girl?" He asked instead, and Sandor sobered up.

"She was working at an inn, in the Riverlands. I found her by chance." Sandor answered, wondering what they wanted from her.

"I see. You know where she had been hiding prior to the inn?"

Sandor wasn't sure. He had wanted to ask but she seemed to want to forget her past life, and he had not wanted to remind her. He knew what it was like to want to start afresh, and allowed her to make up a new past for herself, one in which she might've been happy. Sandor couldn't deny he was curious, _he wanted to know everything about her,_ yet something stopped him from asking. Maybe it was the way the little bird sighed in sadness when she thought he wasn't looking. Or when she yelled out in her sleep. Now, however, he had a feeling he was about to find out. _Seven Hell's, I might not want to know_.

"Littlefinger. Petyr Bealish." Ser Barristan spat the names out, and Sandor was now completely sure he didn't want to know. The old knight, however, carried on, oblivious of Sandor's sudden urge to throttle the knight, cutting off all forms of conversation. He didn't want to know what they had made her do- not know when there was little to nothing he could do to help her. Sandor sighed and listened to the old man, trying to convince himself that perhaps it wasn't as bad as he thought. It better fucking not be, he thought. _I'll find the fucking snake in Hell and fuck his throat with my sword!_

"He ferreted her away from King's Landing, taking her to the Eyrie under a new identity. She became Alayne Stone, his bastard daughter, and he kept her by his side at all times, our sources told us. Once the Tully woman died, he became Lord Protector of the Vale, having somehow convinced Lady Arryn to marry him, and was left sole custodian of Robert Arryn. Of course, Robert Arryn died soon enough, though I doubt it was from natural causes and Alayne Stone was married off to Harry the Heir, a distant cousin of Arryn and heir to the little Lord. Their marriage was short-lived." Ser Barristan paused as if he suddenly remembered something, and Sandor gaped at him, wide-eyed. So _it wasn't just Tyrion!_ His hands balled into fists and his heart raced, wanting to hit something, kill someone. That fucking dickless, slimy twat Littlefinger, preferably. Sandor rememberd the greasy, copper-counting pervert. He owned most of the brothels in King's Landing and Sandor had been to one or two in his time. The man had an almost snake-like appearance, cold eyes that would've set a lesser man's teeth on edge_. I'll kill him,_ Sandor vowed. _I'll kill the bastard!_

"...Littlefinger married her himself..." He heard Ser Barristan say, and Sandor almost died. His little bird, passed around from man to man, unable to change her fate. Sandor understood her unwillingness to be weak again. He understood why she hid daggers in her dresses and used them without qualms. _Fuck!_ _I should've taken her away. I could've prevented this. All of it._ Sandor had never hated himself as much as he did now, hated his own fucking guts for leaving her in that cesspit that night. _Who would've thought she'd be safer with me?_

"...The Stark girl killed him on their wedding night. Opened up his throat..." Sandor almost laughed with giddiness_. Good!_ He hoped she cut off his cock and stuffed it in his slimy fucking mouth. Sandor swelled with pride, though it was tinged with sadness. _She shouldn't have had to do that,_ he thought. _She shouldn't have been there at all. _

"Why are you telling me this?" Sandor asked. Ser Barristan fixed him with a steely glare.

"The girl has been through enough, Clegane. She doesn't need you dragging her around the Free Cities, chasing whatever you think you'll find there. It's time she settled down."

"The girl came willingly enough," Sandor said through gritted teeth, anger coursing through his veins. _What the fuck was he suggesting?_

"Aye, mayhaps. But that is not why I wanted to talk to you. There is a position open in the Queen's Guard. The Queen means for you to fill it." Sandor could see the man was unhappy with the thought of Sandor joining their elite ranks, and he smirked.

"Does she now? Why me?" Sandor asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Ser Barristan looked uncomfortable with the prospect of the Hound, of all people, joining his Queen's Guard.

"She has heard of you, Clegane. She saw you fight Rakharo; she saw you protect the Stark girl. It means you have honour, though I had tried to tell her you had none. She called you brave, and she needs brave men on her side." Sandor had heard enough. _The Dragon Bitch thinks I'll leave Sansa for her?_ Sandor snorted at the thought.

"What about the li- Lady Sansa?" He asked, using her proper title for the first time in a long time. It felt weird coming from his mouth; _she had always just been the little bird_.

"The Queen has plans for her. Mayhaps in King's Landing. Mayhaps elsewhere. Don't concern yourself with her." The old man said. Sandor growled and stepped forward till they were nose to nose.

"I will concern myself with the little Bird when I see fit, old man," Sandor rasped, spittle landing on the knight's face. Sandor wanted to throttle him. He wanted to beat his fucking face in till his own mother wouldn't recognise him. He wanted to kill him. Mostly, though, he just wanted Sansa by his side.

"Aye, of course. The Queen's Guard, Clegane. Consider it."

"Fuck you, Barristan." _Fuck him and his Queen._


	19. Chapter 19

Sansa had been allocated a spacious, beautifully decorated room in the Queen's ship. The Queen's own handmaids had run a bath for her and Sansa soaked herself in hot, soapy water, her newly washed hair plastered to her head. They had scrubbed every inch of her body, then refilled the bath at Sansa's insistence. She couldn't remember the last time she felt this relaxed, but the morning before the storm came back to her. Sansa blushed, thinking back to how she had cradled Sandor's head on her chest, the feel of his arms around her. She had felt safe there, nestled in his arms, and Sansa would do anything to have them around her again. As if he thought the same thing, a knock came on the door. She bid them come in, and when Sandor stepped in, the maids tittered and tutted, gesturing for him to leave. Sansa pushed herself further into the water, blushing at the thought of him seeing her like this. It is most unladylike, a voice in her head said, though Sansa hadn't been a lady since leaving King's Landing.

"Thank you for the bath, but leave me," she said, smiling at the women. They looked uncertain but filed out, glancing suspiciously at Sandor as they left.

"Back to your old self, little bird?" He teased, walking over to the tub and picking up the washcloth. Sansa blushed at the readiness in which she had accepted the handmaidens. She hadn't enjoyed this level of luxury in a long time and her blush deepened when she realized the ease in which commanded the servants. He smiled at her and Sansa knew he was just teasing.

"Turn around," he said, gesturing. Though Sansa already had every inch of her body scrubbed, she turned around anyway, if only for his touch. He lathered the cloth until it was silky soft with soap, then gently ran it over her back in small circles. Sansa closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his hands on her skin.

"She offered me a position in the Queen's Guard," he finally said, as though he was discussing the weather. Sansa flushed with anger.

"And you refused...?" She urged him. _Don't let it be! _He stopped washing her back and moved to her shoulders, dropping the cloth and using his bare hands to massage her muscles. Sansa looked at her reflection in the water, thinking back to the conversation she had earlier with Daenerys. They had been eating juicy fruits and drinking wine when the queen had told her about her plans. _Something that might lift your heavy heart._

"I said I am not taking the Knight's Oath." Sansa's body stilled. _So he wants to go? _Sansa shrugged his hands off her shoulders and stood up, not caring about her nakedness. She stepped out of the tub dripping wet and picked up the towel on her bed, covering herself.

"You want to go to back to King's Landings?" She asked him, drying her arms and legs with a smaller towel. She turned around and started dressing.

"I thought we might both go," he said, and Sansa heard him walk towards her. He stopped behind her as she pulled a dress over her hair. She attempted to do up the laces in the back, but stopped when his hands brushed away her fumbling fingers. When he was done, he ran his hands over her bare shoulders, his fingers sprawled out around the base of her neck. She turned her head to one side and he took it as an invitation, planting small kisses on her exposed neck and shoulder.

"She offered me Winterfell," she said, and his kisses stopped.

"Winterfell?" He asked bewildered, and he took a step back. Sansa turned to face him.

"But Winterfell, Jorah..." He finally realised what it meant.

"You can't," he said. Sansa's anger flashed.

"I can't? But you CAN go back to Westeros, to King's Landing? What did you think, that I would go with you after all that I went through in that wretched place?" She jabbed her finger against his chest and he took another step back. His face clouded over with, something, and his mouth hardened into a thin line.

"I see." Sansa couldn't understand how he could see, when he knew absolutely nothing. He was turning to leave when she spoke up again.

"But I said no, Sandor. I told her he could keep it. I wanted nothing more than to go back to Winterfell. I thought that's what I wanted but there's one thing I want more than titles and lands." She could see hope spreading across his face and it gave her courage.

"I want to be with you, Sandor. Wherever you go. But I won't go to King's Landing," she said, crossing her arms. She thought he might argue, try to convince her that King's Landing is where she needed to be but he didn't. Instead, he strode towards her and took her lips with his own. Sansa felt as though he was kissing her right down to her soul with his own and gave in. She moaned underneath his mouth, running her hands through his hair. He cupped her face in his big hands and pulled away.

"My Sansa," he smiled at her, and Sansa marveled at how her name sounded coming from his lips. It was so full of love and tenderness, but Sansa shook her head.

"No," she said. "Your little bird." He laughed in agreement and kissed her again. Sansa thought she had never been happier. They spent the rest of the day lounging in her room, drinking fine wine and playing games. She sang for him, Florian and Jonquil, and she thought she saw him blink away tears. He brushed her hair, his hands running tenderly through her hair and she showed him her skills with her daggers, showing off for his approval. He showed off in return, attempting to impress her by regaling her with tales of the many tourneys he's won. Sansa laughed at him and threw a grape in his direction, but he caught it in his teeth and ate it, winking. It was almost night when Daenerys interrupted them, servants carrying platters of food in tow. They laid out a spread of fish, vegetables and to Sansa's delight, lemon cakes. She hungrily attacked the cakes, stuffing them whole into her mouth. Sandor laughed at her into his cup, and Daenerys looked on smiling.

"Forgive me, Your Grace." Sansa mumbled, wiping crumbs from around her mouth. Daenerys laughed.

"I am the same over chocolate," she smiled. Sansa's face twisted in confusion.

"Chocolate?" She asked, wondering what could inspire the Queen to forget her manners. Daenerys looked at her in surprise.

"You haven't tried it? Oh, Sansa, you must!" And with that she sent a servant out to get some. They came back carrying a plate of thin brown squares. Sansa took one when Daenerys pushed them into her direction. She held the wafer thin square between her fingers. It was small, so she popped it in her mouth. _She didn't even have to chew_. The chocolate instantly melted on her tongue, leaving a rich, velvety texture in her mouth. Sansa rolled it around her tongue, the delicious flavour caressing her taste buds and her eyes flew open. She didn't even realise she had shut them.

"They're delicious," Sansa squealed, and Daenerys nodded her agreement, flicking a square into her own mouth. Sansa took another one and looked over to Sandor. He sat with a scowl on his face, watching Daenerys suspiciously.

"Ser Jorah loves chocolate, too," the young queen said. Sandor snorted but she ignored him. _She doesn't know, _Sansa thought. _She doesn't know I love him. _Daenerys talked on, oblivious.

"They rebuilt Winterfell after..." She fell quiet and Sansa thought back to Theon and her little brothers. _Baby Rickon and sweet Bran. Dead. Dead. Dead._

"It's beautiful now, Sansa. The castle is newly refurbished and impregnable. My dragons reside in The Gift, and the whitewalkers, they're not a problem anymore, Sansa. The dragons chased them away." She spoke some more on the merits of Winterfell, trying to convince Sansa to consider the proposition. Sandor got up, and with a stiff bow to the queen, stalked out of the room. Daenerys watched him leave, then looked at Sansa questioningly. Sansa looked down at her hands.

"Do you love him?" The young queen asked suddenly. Sansa blushed.

"Yes. I love him, Your Grace. More than anything." Daenerys slowly nodded.

"What about Winterfell?"

Sansa looked up and straightened her back.

"I wish I could accept your offer, Your Grace. It's just, I can't marry a man I don't love. Not again. I'd like to marry for love, this time." Sansa blushed at her admission, but the truth was there. She hadn't loved Tyrion, nor Harry the Heir, nor Petyr Baelish. _Especially not Petyr Baelish. _She was tired of being passed from one man to another, and none loved her the way Sandor did. Daenerys looked at her sadly.

"I know what you've been through. I have my own spiders, Sansa. They told me things. And I'm sorry for what they've made you do, but you could learn to love Ser Jorah. He's honourable, kind and unflinchingly faithful and he could take care of you, Sansa. He could love you." The last sentence was said in a sad, painful tone. _He could love you._

Sansa flushed with anger, unable to control her sudden rage.

"Do you know what it is like to be married off not once, twice but THREE times? To call THREE men who don't love you your husband? Nobody loves me like Sandor does. He's always looked after me. It was him who made life in King's Landing bearable. And when he left... I wanted him so bad, Your Grace. He came back for me! He cares about me. And I know he might not look like much but I love him, and no amount of land or money can ever make me give him up. So with all due respect, Your Grace, please don't ask me to marry Ser Jorah. He may be honorable and kind and all the other things you say he is, but there is nobody more loyal or faithful than my Sandor. They don't call him the _Hound_ for nothing!" Sansa stared the queen down, all manners and courtesies forgotten. _How can she ask me to give up love?_

"Have you ever been in Love, Your Grace?" Sansa asked quietly. She thought the question forward, and instantly regretted asking it. Daenerys looked at her for a long moment before sighing sadly. In her flash of vulnerability, Sansa saw how young she really was.

"Yes, Sansa. A long time ago, I was married. It wasn't love to begin with, but grew quickly into something powerful." A tear slipped down her face, tracing a line of sadness down to her chin.

"He was taken away from me, Sansa. Hatred and anger took him away from me, and I realise I am wrong to try and take your _Sun and Stars _away from you." She reached out and grabbed Sansa's hand. Sansa squeezed back, their small hands drawing strength from each other.

"Thank you," Sansa whispered, before launching herself at the queen holding her in a tight embrace. Daenerys laughed and hugged her in return.

"Make sure you come to visit me in King's Landing," Daenerys smiled.

"You and Sandor both." Sansa giggled and was glad she found a friend in Daenerys.

"And, if you like, Clegane Keep is his. You could have it back," Daenerys offered. Sansa's smile widened. _Could we make Clegane Keep our home? _Queen Daenerys got up and Sansa followed suit.

"We'll reach Braavos in the morning," Daenerys said, popping a chocolate in her mouth.

"You'll stay with us, won't you? You must see our garden, its breath-taking!" The queen held both of Sansa's hands and kissed her on the cheek. Sansa smiled.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Sansa said, but then added, "Why don't you stay the night, Your Grace? The bed is big enough for six." Sansa grinned, gesturing at the bed that took up half the room.

"Sweet Sansa, I'd love to. But, I need to speak to someone. I am in love too." Daenerys admitted, and Sansa instantly knew who it was. They way she spoke about him, the way her face lit up at the mention of his name. The way she had consulted him back on 'The Black Maid'.

"_Ser Jorah?_" Sansa grinned. Daenerys' eyes widened in surprise.

"How did you know?"

Sansa thought about Sandor. How kind he was to her. How faithful he had been and knew Jorah was that man to Queen Daenerys.

"He is your Hound, Your Grace." Sansa whispered, and Daenerys nodded in agreement.

"Thank you, Sansa," she said against Sansa's cheek and with a last kiss, she left the room.

Some time in the night, Sandor had come into her room and crawled into bed with her. Sansa smiled lazily and stroked his face. She didn't stop to consider how this might look and when he laid his head on her shoulder, she found she didn't care. Sansa turned and found his lips with her own, pressing hard, wanting to take from him as much as she wanted to give everything of herself. _My Sun and Stars_, she thought, amused that a people so uncivilized could be so romantic. Sandor responded instantly and she felt his tongue sweep her lips before she opened up for him with a sigh. He growled into her mouth and Sansa felt the vibrations go through her, ending in the start of an almost painful pulse low in her stomach. She pushed her breasts against his chest, wanting every inch of their bodies to touch. She wanted him completely and as the kiss dragged on, she wanted him to have her. _Completely_. Sansa blushed at the thought but couldn't deny the urgent thrumming of the spot between her legs. Putting her arms around his neck, she lay back, pulling him on top of her. He climbed over as she spread her legs, his weight lifted off her by his elbows. All of a sudden the nightshift she wore irritated her. His clothes irritated her. She hated everything that stopped her skin for touching his and despised the need to break apart, even if it was to take in some air. He pulled apart from her then, looking down at her. Sansa knew her hair was a ruin and her lips swollen, yet she felt he would not have cared, either way. She knew he loved her, though he hadn't told her yet.

"Sansa…" he said, and she wanted to tell him to shut up. This was not the time or place to be talking, yet she was too shy to tell him what she really wanted, so she settled for his name.

"Sandor?" Sansa was painfully aware of how breathy she sounded, but Sandor stopped all talk as he swooped down for another kiss. Sansa moaned, thrusting her hips up to meet his. She needed to relieve the tension somehow, and the little friction he provided was delightful. She thrust up again, and this time felt the bulge of his manhood. Sandor gasped as her crotch ground against his cock, and she felt him grind down back at her. It felt delicious, but it was not enough. _Not near enough. _

"Sandor. More- I want…" He stilled and looked at her, his face hidden in the darkness. She wished she could see him. She heard his ragged breathing, the air hot on her face before he growled again and pushed himself back.

"No you don't, Little Bird." He said, rolling off her again. Sansa turned to her side, confused as to why he stopped so suddenly. She had felt his manhood, she knew he stood erect; why deny himself when she wanted him so much.

"Sandor, please. I need you," she was pleading now, and blushed at her own stupidity. She sensed his gaze on her and then felt his hand on her thigh. His fingers danced over her skin till they came to rest in the v between her legs. Sansa instinctively spread her legs a little and her breath hitched as she felt his rough thumb push aside her smallclothes.

"You're all wet." He said simply, and Sansa heard a tone of wonder in his voice. _Is that a good thing?_

"I'm sorry." She said, not knowing what else to say. Sandor just laughed.

"Girl, it's good. Aye, we can take care of that now." He replied, pulling at the smallclothes. Sansa heard it rip and yelped when the material dug into her flesh, but she was excited at the prospect of being _taken care of_.

"Sandor, your clothes," she said when she realised he still wore his breeches and tunic. She wanted him naked. Sandor chuckled in response, but didn't start taking his clothes off.

"Aren't you going to, you know, uh, take off you things?" She asked again, confused as to why he would still be wearing his clothes.

"I don't need to for what I'm going to do to you, Little Bird." A frisson of fear and excitement ran through her body and Sansa gasp at the feel of his thumb on that spot.

"What are you going to do?" Sansa asked, her voice small. Sandor just clucked at her as he moved between her legs, kneeling before her. Sansa was faintly aware of how unladylike she must look, with her legs spread wide before Sandor, her parts naked for his eyes to feast on. She was grateful for the dark, then, but wished she could see his face. She felt his face against her thigh as he nipped at the soft skin, contrasting the bites with tender kisses.

"You smell good enough to eat, Little Bird," he growled, and Sansa would've died of mortification had Sandor put his mouth _right_ on her. _Oh, God's!_ His tongue hit the little nub of skin at the top of her folds and Sansa felt a fire course through her body. Sandor slipped his thumb inside her and the feeling, as unfamiliar it was, felt like coming home. Sansa squirmed underneath his mouth as he lapped between her folds, his tongue swirling around her clit. Sansa moaned loudly, before whimpers escaped her mouth.

"Sandor, Oh, God's please," she cried, wanting to close her legs to the sensation but unable to as he held her down.

"You're so wet," he growled against her nub and Sansa felt as though she was about to die.

"Come for me, little bird," he added, twisting his thumb inside her to stroke that exact point. Sansa's hands flew down to his head, holding him down as he stroked and sucked and fucked her with his mouth.

"God's- Sandor! Please Sandor, don't stop!" she yelled out, back arching off the bed, unable to stop the waves coming over her. All of a sudden it was as though someone lit a thousand candles at once, light bursting before her eyes and she felt like the world swallowed her up and shook her from the inside out. Sandor stayed with her till the sensations faded, before chuckling softly and moving back to lie down beside her. Sansa felt as though a weight had been lifted off her, though she was spent and ready to let sleep claim her.

"Thank you," she said, pulling him closer to her. He swung an arm over her, and shifted closer to her.

"Don't marry Mormont," he said, his voice muffled against her neck. Sansa felt his body freeze as though he hadn't meant for her to hear it.

"Never," she reassured him. Sansa heard him exhale a sigh of relief and smiled. He nuzzled her neck and she pressed a kiss against his forehead. _I wouln't give this up for all the dragons in the world, _Sansa thought. _Gold ones or living._

**Thank you for your reviews, everyone. It's been mentioned that the quality has fallen in the last couple of chapters; I'm sorry for that. I don't have a particular reason to explain the sudden decline other than a collection of issues I've been working through lately. However, I listen to feedback, both good and bad, so feel free to tell me I suck and should kill myself. It's all good with me. On another note, I have tried to 'clean up' the last three chapters as someone suggested I do, and though I can't promise they're a lot better, hopefully the improvement will appease. I'll try and take care with my writing for future chapters. Sorry again and I hope you're all alright. **

**Also, I have an extreme dislike for long AN's so I apologize for this one. I just had to explain. **


	20. Chapter 20

**Dedicated to Christina and The Holy Terror. Because, thank you.**

Braavos was beautiful. Sansa looked at her surroundings, bewildered at the strange smells and exotic beasts, the language a mystery to her ears, yet all so very beautiful. The colours were so vibrant that Sansa felt uncomfortable in her plain brown dress when even the most common of the braavosi wore beautifully patterned skirts and bright dresses decorated with intricate embroidery. The buildings too, were breathtaking, but none as awe-inspiring as the Queen's Palace. The other manses were dwarfed in comparison to the one they would be staying in and Sansa gasped when she first laid eyes on it. It was washed in a beige paint, accented with gold that made the place shine ethereally. A frisson of excitement went through Sansa as she walked through the curved gates decorated with birds she'd never seen before.

"Look at that, Little bird- you'll fit right in," Sandor said to her then, pointing at the walls of the courtyard. Sansa laughed when she saw it. Birds of all shapes and sizes, of all races and colours were painted on the walls; some in flight, others standing regally overlooking their young. Sansa elbowed Sandor in the side and he pretended to be hurt, doubling over in feigned agony. She laughed and rolled her eyes, walking on without him. Sansa turned her head this way and that, unwilling to miss even a single detail of the mural. _It really is beautiful, _she thought. She couldn't remember ever seeing anything this wonderful, and resigned to the fact that she'll never see anything that will compare to this in her life.

Sansa was wrong. The inside was even more awe-inspiring than the courtyard. The walls were covered in deep purple velvet, the material so soft Sansa almost wept when she put her hand against it. The floors were a plush carpet, so thick you felt like you sunk in a few inches with every step. Flowers decorated every table, from red roses to delicate water-lilies in glass bowls, the flowers giving off a sweet scent, enveloping the room in the fresh perfume of nature. Sansa fell in love instantly. She felt Sandor fall into step behind her as the servants walked in with the meagre belongings they had brought with them.

"Isn't it pretty?" Sansa stopped before a painting of a man and a woman. The woman was in a tower, leaning out of her window as the man was on his knees outside, holding up flowers for his ladylove. Sansa noted the look of surprise in the woman's face, the delicate smile playing around her lips and the earnest look of devotion in the man's eyes. _That's what it's like to be courted_, Sansa thought. She had never had anyone bring her gifts, never had a man devote poetry to her, either. She looked at the man standing next to her. She watched Sandor take in the scene in the painting, his eyes softening. Sansa smiled to herself. _It's unlikely I'll ever be courted now,_ she thought, turning back to the painting. She found that the fact didn't sadden her as much as she thought it would.

...

Sandor grunted. Is it pretty? _It's a useless old painting_, he wanted to tell her, but he found he couldn't. He saw her look at him from the corner of his eyes and he wondered what she wanted. _Perhaps she'd like me to bring her flowers_, he thought, mortified at the idea of being seen with roses in his hands. But even through his embarrassment, he knew he would bring her ten dozen roses if it meant she'd be happy. He focused on the painting again. _The man looks a fool_, he thought, _with that stupid puppy-dog expression on his face_. _A pathetic bastard, kneeling there in the grass as the pretty maid watches him from above, laughs at him. No,_ he thought, _that won't be me._ He heard the little bird sigh and looked down over his shoulder at her. _Maybe just for her_, he thought, remembering how she had sighed for him last night. He had wanted to fuck- _no-_ make love to her then. He was rock fucking hard, yet he couldn't bring himself to do it. '_She's been through enough'_, he heard Ser Barristan's voice echo in his head. He had wanted it, seven hell's, he'd been so close. The little bird had practically begged for him to take her, but he just couldn't. She's been through enough. Suddenly, he was angry again. Angry at her, angry at fucking Tyrion and fucking Petyr and whoever the fuck that fucking Harry was. He was angry at them all; angry at himself that he couldn't break their fucking necks himself. Mostly, he was angry he couldn't do anything to help his little bird forget them all.

So he stood there, breathing hard with his hands clenching open and closed, when the little bird put her own small hand in his. He looked down at their hands, his swarthy, scarred big one around the small, delicately white of Sansa's. Looking back up, he caught her looking straight at him, smiling. _She is smiling, at me!_

"Have you ever seen anything more beautiful, Sandor?" She asked again, gesturing around them. He took in the gold, so much fucking gold and grimaced. _So this is what the little bird likes?_ _I can't give her this,_ he realised. _I can't give her a room of gold with velvet fucking walls. I can't give her anything but violence and an old dog's black heart. See what fucking good that will do her._

"Yes," he answered, and dropped her hand, walking briskly towards the door. _God, why couldn't I smile at her? Must I make her fucking hate me?_

_..._

_Why is he still always so hateful? _Sansa thought, watching Sandor leave the hall._ Why must he always ruin everything_? Last night had been magical, yet this morning, her bed was empty and cold without him. Sansa couldn't understand why he had left, and had felt hurt afterwards. When he sensed her sadness, however, he had tried to make her laugh, succeeding on several occasions, yet the moment she began to smile in earnest, he would turn back into the old Sandor, again. She didn't mind his rudeness but thought he might've stopped directing his acidity towards her, after what they had... shared. Sansa was still reeling from last night. Sandor had made her feel things she had never felt before. Not even her own awkward fumbling in the privacy of her bedroom had felt that good. Sansa blushed to think of his head between her-

"My Lady, your room is ready." A voice interrupted her daydream. Sansa looked up as if she'd been caught doing something bad, but there was only a maid.

"Thank you," she said, stepping forward and gesturing for the girl to lead the way. She was taken up a flight of steps, down a corridor that made the ones in the Red Keep look like dirty alleyways; the floor was a shiny marble, the walls the same deep purple velvet of the hall. Sansa wondered whether all the walls in the palace were covered in purple velvet, and she supposed it probably was. Her room, too, had velvet walls and the same thick carpeting in a bright shade of yellow. Sansa fell in love with the room. The entire decor was purple and yellow, the colours complementing each other well, with the purple of the walls against the yellow of the carpeting, and the purple bedding with the yellow embroidered flowers. Sansa gasped and twirled around, taking in her new surroundings. She went back out into the solar, running her fingers over the smooth tabletops and the leather of the books strewn across the table. They were in the Common Tongue, she noticed, and picked one up. _'The Story of Florian and Jonquil'_. Sansa opened the book, the feel of it brand new in her hands. The pages were fresh and had never been touched, so when she turned to the first page, she was surprised at what she found:

'_Little Bird, _

_I'm Sorry._

_Love, Sandor'_

Sansa hugged the book to her chest and smiled a wide-toothed grin. Running back to her bedroom, she jumped on her bed and squealed. He had signed it '_Love, Sandor'_! She laughed, squeezing the book against her breast, wanting to imprint the memory of it into her heart. _He loves me. He loves me. _She felt like a bird, truly, flying high above the clouds, as close to the Sun as she dared_. _Just as sudden as her spirit had soared, her mood came crashing down. She had forgotten about her. That girl; _Elenor._

...

It was a while before he dared knocking on her door. She may still be angry, he thought, and why wouldn't she be? _I was a dick to her._ It was dark outside now, and he had seen the Little Bird in the hall for their supper, yet she hadn't looked at him. It's _your fault, fool, for thinking she wanted to be courted by you._ He had bought the book on impulse, a vendor outside the palace having offered it him for cheap. At first Sandor growled at him to get out of his way, but one book caught his eye. He had to buy it then, and as soon as he did, he returned to the palace and wrote a note in it_. Fool, fool, fool!_ He had paid the maid to put it in her room, and now Sandor wondered whether she had seen it. His attempts to catch her eyes failed; she never once looked at him. She barely ate anything, and even her smiles to the Queen were sparse. He wondered whether he should apologise again, or just drink till the problem goes away. The little bird got up then, and the question was answered for him. He pushed off against the table and stood, following Sansa to her room. And here he stood. An hour had passed and he still hadn't worked up the nerve to knock on her door. _Just do it, damn it! Or are you too craven to face the little redhead? _Sandor braced himself for the storm, the Stark words flitting briefly through his mind as he lifted his arm. Before he could bring it down, the door swung open and there she was, looking at him. They stared at eachother and Sandor couldn't tell how long they'd been standing there when she turned around and walked through to her solar, leaving the door open. Sandor hesitated but followed her in, pushing the door shut behind.

"How long were you planning on staying outside my door?" She asked innocently, a wicked gleam in her eyes. Sandor turned red and he felt his mouth twitch.

"I, I was only there for a moment, little bird," he lied, hoping she wouldn't know. It was too much to hope for after all.

"Don't lie to me, Sandor. I've been waiting for you to come in for an hour," she said, shooting him a look. Sandor didn't know what to say, so he kept his mouth shut.

"Who is Elenor," she blurted out, and his neck almost snapped as he twisted it towards her. How does she-

"Only, you said her name. When you were ill, I mean. I wondered who she was. You must've loved her a lot." It was Sansa's turn to blush. If he wasn't mistaken, that look on her face could only be described as jealousy.

"Are you jealous, little bird?" He laughed, enjoying himself a lot more than he was a minute earlier. Her blush deepened.

"Yes." Sandor almost choked on his laughter. She looked close to tears but the bravery she showed made his heart break. _It's easy for her though, to admit to love someone. She's never been rejected, _he thought.

"Elenor was my sister, Sansa." He saw how her face changed from a mixture of sadness and jealousy to extreme elation.

"Your sister?" She was smiling in earnest, now, and Sandor couldn't help but grin back at her. But then her smile faltered and she walked over to him, pulling his hand and pushing him into a chair. He sat down, waiting silently as she sat on his lap, before twining her arms around his neck. "You never told me you had a sister," she said accusingly. Sandor inclined his head. It was true, because there was nothing to say about her. Not anymore.

"She's dead, Sansa. She's been dead for a while. Sometimes I wonder if I made her up somehow."

To his surprise, Sansa placed her hand on the scarred side of his face. _I will never get used to this,_ he thought.

"I feel the same way, sometimes. At times I think about my father, my lady mother, _all of them_, and wonder if they ever really existed." Sandor's heart almost broke at the sadness in her voice. The way her shoulders hunched over as though to protect herself from the world. He wanted to give her more than this pain. More than misery, but he had to learn how. He just didn't know.

"What happened to her, Sandor?" She asked, breaking the heavy silence that had enveloped them. Sandor tensed at the memory.

"My brother, Gregor, that's what happened to her." He replied, burying his face in her neck. _She smells like flowers, _he thought. _Like fresh flowers and honey._ He inhaled deeply before telling her everything. How she had enjoyed the songs and stories of knightly valor and courtly love, just as he had done when he was little. How she had told him he would be the greatest knight to ever walk the world. How she had always taken care of him, and how she'd been the only one who hadn't looked at him in disgust after Gregor had burned him. He told Sansa everything, and he couldn't stop. He told her how Elenor was the only one who insisted on telling the truth; the only one who told everyone it wasn't his bedding that had caught fire. Sansa gasped when he told her about the rape, and he saw her bottom lip quiver as though she was close to tears. She did cry when he told her about finding his sister's body battered and broken down a slight of stairs, the way her sad eyes pleaded with him even in death. When Sandor had finished, he felt as though a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and he held Sansa close as she stroked the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry, too," she whispered in his ear, letting him know she found his book. He smiled into her hair and considered how for a man so scared of fire, he would be willing to drown himself in her hair forever.

She held him for a while, and Sandor let her. He felt she needed it as much as he did, and so he held her even closer. She kissed his burns, making his heart stop, and kissed him again, restarting his entire life. _I love her,_ he thought. _If only I could tell her._

"Sandor," he heard her say. Sandor extracted himself from her embrace, and turned his face to hers. _I would do anything to make her happy_, he thought, and smiled.

"Anything, little bird." It didn't matter that he didn't know what she was going to say or ask for; he would say yes to whatever she wanted.

"Could you, I mean, could we go out, tonight. Just the two of us?" She gave him a watery smile and he couldn't help but hug her to him again.

"_Anything."_


	21. Chapter 21

Dany had told her about the festival during supper. She had explained it as the Festival of Love, a day dedicated to the one you hold dearest, whether it is your _Sun and Stars_ or your sister, mother, father or grandfather. Sansa marvelled at the Braavosi culture and wished this tradition would reach Westeros, and yet sadness clutched at her in the realisation that she would never be able to dedicate this day to her brothers or sisters. _Arya_, she thought. Arya would've hated this day, squeamish at any sign of affection. _We should've been closer, we were sisters!_ Sansa picked at her food, unable to eat, yet she knew there was one more person as deserving of this day as anyone else. She snuck a peek at the man guzzling wine as though it would go out of fashion. Sansa sighed, wondering how she would ever get him to go with her to watch the procession.

Braavos was even more beautiful by night, Sansa realised, the dark sky twinkling with a million stars even as the lanterns lining the streets cast a golden glow in each direction. The revellers were merry, yelling loudly and kissing liberally, making Sansa blush and laugh at the same time. _The people are so free,_ she thought, watching two women kiss each other on the mouth. Sansa's eyes widened at the display, the women oblivious of the crowds and the crowds oblivious to them. They laughed through their kiss, stroking each others hair and shoulders and- _Oh Gods_! Sansa turned away and walked on feeling like an intruder yet smiling at the love that was so obvious between them. She looked for Sandor and found his broad back easily enough as he was a head taller than the tallest man there. She grabbed his hand when she reached him, not wanting to be left alone in the crowd that pulsed as though with a collective heartbeat. There were singers, though Sansa didn't recognise a single tune, but the song was a merry one and men twirled the women 'round and 'round, laughing till they were out of breath. Sansa tried not to be envious, knowing Sandor was not one to dance, yet she would've liked to be lifted up as the Braavosi men lifted their women. She sighed and allowed Sandor to lead her on_. At least he came with me_, she thought. That should be enough. And it was.

They walked by big animals in cages, and Sandor explained all of their names and where they were found the most. Sansa was surprised at how much she knew, and was even more surprised at the sense of pride his knowledge fanned in her.

"That one is called a tiger." He pointed at the cat-like creature with the striped fur. Sansa gasped.

"It's beautiful!"

"Aye, little bird, beautiful. Don't try and pet it unless you feel you have one hand too many, though," he chuckled, and Sansa drew back the hand that had voluntarily reached out. She shot him a look and he chuckled at her in response, turning to a similar creature but with a plain golden pelt and a thick bushy mane.

"A lion!" Sansa instantly hated the animal, though she could not deny its beauty. Sandor stopped chuckling.

"Fierce beast, that one. No wonder they-" he stopped himself, and Sansa thought he didn't want to ruin their evening with talk of the Lannisters.

"Come on, there's something going on by the river."

Sansa allowed him to lead her to a bridge, shouldering people aside so they could have a choice spot. He pulled Sansa in front of him and placed his hands on her waist. The river looked majestic. It had a thousand candles floating in them, the light reflecting off the water throwing an ethereal illumination around the riverbank. Sansa looked to her right and saw a woman staring openly at Sandor, her face twisted in disgust. Sansa raised her head a little and noticed Sandor's jaw clenched tight. _He must feel her eyes on him_, she thought. Lifting her foot, she brought her heel down on the woman's toes, who yelped and turned to Sansa, pain, surprise and anger written in equal measure on her face. Sansa just glared at her, and leaned back into Sandor, never taking her eyes off the offending woman. _It's rude to stare_, Sansa thought as the woman got the right idea and moved away, a blush reddening the top of her ears. She sank further into Sandors chest and felt him give her waist a little squeeze. _You're my man,_ she thought. It _is my duty to protect you_.

Sansa didn't know how long they stood on that bridge. They watched a thousand candles float by and a hundred more gondola's, all carrying wealthy men and beautiful women. Sandor explained who the women were.

"Courtesans," he said. Sansa let out an unladylike 'huh?' and he chuckled. "They're nothing more than the rich man's prostitute. They're exceptionally beautiful and like royalty in Braavos," he explained. Sansa watched the women in their elaborate hairstyles and wonderfully painted faces. She admired the diamonds dangling from their ears and the sapphires hanging off their necks. _They truly are beautiful,_ she admitted, yet the way they held their noses in the air at the commonfolk irked her. _You are no better than Betsy,_ she thought when she saw a particularly beautiful woman who seemed bored to tears, despite the applause that erupted at her arrival_. At least Betsy was kind. _Sansa remembered her friend with a hint of sadness and shifted her gaze from the prostitute, watching the crowd that had formed at the riverbank. She could feel Sandor growing restless, but she was unwilling to leave. _Not yet._ Her eyes fell on a boy's face in the crowd. Sansa judged him to be a little younger than her, though he was short and skinny. Sansa wondered why he wasn't watching the procession and had his face tilted up towards the bridge instead, boldly watching... _Sandor?_ She watched the expression of hate on the boy's face and the hairs on her arms stood on end when he started in their direction, his hand falling to his hip.

"Sandor," she said, pushing back a little.

"What is it?"

"Can we go, now?" Sansa asked, turning to face him. He looked down at her and smirked.

"I thought you would never ask," he laughed, grabbing her hand and turning, dragging her along behind him as he pushed to make a path. Sansa was a little disappointed that he hadn't been enjoying himself as much as she had, but tried not to think too much into it. _He's a warrior,_ she thought. _I should be glad he came with me at all._ Sansa noticed he was taking her back home and pulled on his arm till he turned around.

"Can we stop somewhere for a drink? Only I don't want to go home yet," she explained when he looked at her curiously. His face split into a grin and she was relieved the night would last a little longer, at least. All of the places were packed, so Sandor led them down side streets and alleyways, turning corners after corners until they reached a small, reasonably clean inn. Sandor held the door open for Sansa as she entered, and she blushed at his chivalry. He led her to a table far in the corner, washed in shadows and Sansa's stomach fluttered at the intimacy of the little alcove. She sat down and he sat opposite her, staring intently as she fumbled with her hands.

"Wine. Your best." She heard him say to the innkeeper, a small dark man, face deeply lined with age. Sansa looked up at the old man and gave him a small smile when he winked at her. Blushing, she turned back to Sandor who was watching her, his lips a thin white line.

"What's wrong?" Sansa asked, not knowing what could've changed his mood so quick.

"He's a little old, don't you think?" Sandor grumbled, and Sansa laughed. The laughter just wouldn't stop though she was aware of the thunderous look Sandor wore on his face_. Let him be jealous_, she thought, though she wished it wasn't of a man who had seen his hundredth nameday ten years ago. The old man returned with their wine and two cups and Sansa laughed even harder at the sight of Sandor's source of jealousy._ He is even older than John! _Sandor mumbled something about it not being that funny, but his objections only fuelled Sansa's hysterics. Sandor pushed a cup of wine at her and she drowned her laughter in the tart liquid. Sansa spluttered and tears sprang in her eyes at the strong taste, briefly wondering whether he knew the wine was strong when he chuckled at her, his earlier jealousy already forgotten.

"Be careful there, little bird," he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her chin. Sansa's eyes flitted over his face as he gently wiped the red liquid from around her mouth. She studied his stormy grey eyes as they focused on her lips. She memorised the scars on his face, the angry red that used to scare her in a different lifetime. Sansa raised her hand and traced the map on the right side of his face, feeling the rugged skin underneath her fingertips. Sandor froze and caught her eyes, a wild kind of fear present in the deep pools of grey. _His eyes are nice,_ she thought. They reminded her of Winterfell, _of home_, and she felt safe when he was looking at her. She smiled and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She saw the corner of his mouth twitch and kissed him there, too. She leaned back to look at him, the fear in his eyes replaced by something else altogether. Sansa recognised the lust and knew he saw it reflected in her eyes, but instead of kissing her like she thought he would, he grunted and turned away from her, picking up his drink and downing it in one long gulp. Sansa sighed in exasperation and sipped on her own wine, revelling in the way it burned into her stomach.

"We should get a room here, Sandor." Sansa said, shocked as soon as the words flew out of her mouth. Sandor paused with his cup mid-way in the air and turned to look at her, eyes wide.

"Why would we do that?" He asked deliberately, his focus back on the drink he was swallowing down. Sansa reached out and took the cup from his hands, not wanting to compete for his attentions with wine. Damn him!

"Well, because, I mean, we're here, aren't we? And the manse is so far away. We could go back in the morning." She mumbled, knowing it was a poor excuse as the words fell from her mouth. _He'll never fall for it,_ she thought. Sansa lowered her eyes, angry that he made her feel like the little bird she used to be. She didn't mind him calling her one, but her acting like it was different. She thought she had changed but Sandor had the uncanny ability to bring out her foolish side, the side that had died the day she left King's Landing. _Or was it the day he had left?_ Sansa looked down at her hands in her lap, pulling at imaginary loose threads in her skirt. _Damn him thrice to hell!_

"Aye, if you're too tired to walk, little bird." He conceded, and Sansa jerked her head back up.

"I am not too tired, _ser_," she snapped, using the title to irk him. It worked because he turned a bright red, his jaws tightening dangerously.

"If you're not tired we can make it back, m'lady," he said through clenched teeth. Sansa bristled at the mocking way in which he said 'm'lady'.

"No. You should know why I want to stay here tonight, or are you _that _stupid, dog?" Sansa was getting angry, and though she would never dream of calling him 'dog' or 'hound' even, he was pushing all of her buttons. Sansa must've been pushing his too, because he brought his face menacingly close to hers. When he was but a hairsbreadth away from her, he whispered in a voice filled anger and promise, making Sansa lean back in her seat and resist a shiver.

"Why, is the bitch in heat, again?"

Sansa stared at him, wide-eyed, before she pulled back her hand and slapped him across the face, the crack of her hand against his face seeming to echo around the inn. The place was deathly quiet, and all Sansa could hear were his heartbeat and her own frantic breathing. Their eyes held and Sansa saw the anger give way to surprise, surprise give way to laughter and laughter give way to lust. He grabbed Sansa by the waist and pulled her onto his lap, pinching her chin between his forefinger and thumb before bringing his mouth down to claim hers. Sansa brought her own hands up to finger through his hair, pulling lightly as she ran her tongue across his lip from the plump side to the burn. Sandor growled and opened his mouth, sweeping his tongue into hers. Sansa could feel the bulge of his manhood against her bottom and ground down against him, feeling the rumble in his chest as he resisted a moan. Suddenly he broke their kiss off and just stared at her, breathing heavy as Sansa panted, her own breasts heaving. There was a pull between them, a current as tangible as the world itself, and she knew he could sense it because his eyes hooded over and he groaned.

"I trust you, Sandor," Sansa said. She didn't know what was stopping him from taking her so she figured it was some self-inflicted moral-code he thrust upon himself, though she didn't understand why. Sandor seemed to be fighting an internal battle and Sansa leaned forward to press her lips against his. "I trust you. I need you. I _love_ you," she said against his lips, kissing him with each declaration. Something seemed to snap inside him because he abruptly stood up, Sansa falling backwards in a heap of skirts and shame as he stood up and left. Sansa couldn't deny she was sorely disappointed and even more so, she was angry. _Perhaps he's just not attracted to you_, a voice in her head laughed. Sandor returned within seconds and Sansa stood up, smoothing down her dress with as dignity as she could muster.

"You know- if you don't find me... attractive you could ju-"

"I got us a room."

"What?" Sansa's mouth dropped.

"What in the buggering hells are you talking about?" Sandor's mouth imitated her own.

"I mean, I thought you didn't want me?" Sansa looked down at her feet, the faint feeling of anger returning. _Why can't I ever think straight with him?_ Sandor just laughed at her and Sansa's blush deepened. _Why is he always so mean?_

"You think I don't want you? I've wanted you from the first day I saw you, girl." Sandor growled, moving to stand inches from Sansa, who looked up and saw the love in his eyes. _ Love and lust_, she thought with satisfaction.

"Then what are you waiting for, Ser?" Sansa said, smiling, and for once Sandor didn't mind the title. He chuckled darkly as he grabbed the top of her arm, dragging her across the common room to a staircase leading to the room he had rented. Sansa stumbled behind him up the rickety flight of stairs, her legs weak with excitement. Her stomach fluttered at the prospect of being with Sandor, and though his sheer size daunted her, she felt nothing but safe with him.


	22. Chapter 22

The room was large but dark, though the open shutters allowed the moon to cast an eerie glow into it. Sansa's eyes adjusted to the darkness as Sandor attempted to light a candle. Sansa stood in the middle of the room, turned towards the bed that was pushed against the far wall and stared_. This is it,_ she thought. _This is it!_ She heard Sandor curse as he fumbled with the candles, before he must've given up as she felt him stride towards her and stop right behind her.

"Are you sure, little bird?" He said against her ear, nuzzling her hair as she turned her head to give him access to her neck. Sandor pounced on the expanse of skin exposed to him with wet, open-mouthed kisses and Sansa moaned, her body reacting to him in extraordinary ways.

"Yes," was all she could say as his hands lowered from where they rested on her shoulders to her back, then snaked under her arms and brushed against the side of her breasts.

"Yes!" Sansa breathed, and Sandor needed no more convincing as he spun her around to face him and crushed his mouth against hers. He seemed to kiss her deep down to her soul and Sansa bared all, she wanted to give him all of her to keep safe as she knew he would_. I won't hurt you, little bird._ The promise he had made so many years ago echoed through her mind as she felt his manhood against her lower stomach. His desire for her fuelled her own as she ground her crotch against his leg, briefly admonishing herself for her wanton display yet not giving a damn. _He is mine as I am his,_ she thought as their kiss deepened, Sandor's hands softly stroking her hips and moving down to her buttocks, before squeezing so hard Sansa yelped. He broke their kiss and struggled with the laces of her dress and with a frustrated pull, the strings ripped and her dress fell down to her hips, exposing her breasts. She hadn't worn a shift because of the heat and she was glad as Sandor lowered his head and clamped his mouth around her nipple. Sansa gasped, delighted at the sensation that coursed through her at his touch and longed to touch him, too. She reached out her hands and tugged on his tunic, which he removed in one swift movement before bringing his mouth down to her other breast, kissing and sucking the sensitive nub that stood on end, desperate for his touch.

"Your teats, God's, they're beautiful!" Sandor said through a mouthful of her breasts and Sansa threw her head back, sighing pleasure. _It's not enough!_

"Sandor- I want to touch you," she said, her voice breathy and weak. Sandor straightened. kicked off his boots and began tugging at his breeches as Sansa stepped out of her dress and small clothes. His eyes widened at the sight of her.

"Sansa..." His breath caught and she knew how he felt, watching the taut muscles of his chest ripple with each intake of breath. His broad chest tapered into narrow hips and down into thick, strong legs but Sansa's eyes were glued at his centre. His manhood jutted forward, as big as the rest of him, and a frisson of fear made her gasp.

"No need to be scared, little bird. Come here." Sandor grabbed her hand and put it around his cock, his hand cradled over hers. Sansa wondered how something could be so hard and so soft at the same time, but then looked up into Sandor's face and smiled. _He's hard and soft, too,_ she thought. Unsure, Sansa started stroking Sandor's manhood, the skin velvety under her fingers.

"Enough of that, girl." He pushed her hand away and lifted her up over his shoulder as she squealed in protest.

"Let me down!" He laughed and smacked her on her ass, and Sansa couldn't help the excitement that contact with him brought.

"As you command, m'lady," and he deposited her unceremoniously on the bed. Sansa laughed some more before he kneeled down on the bed and silenced her, his hand burying itself in her hair.

"You are so beautiful," he rasped, and Sansa glowed with happiness.

"You are beautiful, too," she admitted, and he was. His body was chiselled and hard, his shoulders powerfully broad and his arms unbelievably strong. He had the body of a warrior, yet he was nothing but a lover to Sansa. Sandor only chuckled at the compliment and kissed her hard, snaking his free hand down to fondle her breasts. As he abandoned her breast and travelled down her stomach to her mound, Sansa reached out and caught his hand.

"Sandor," Sansa started, but paused, not knowing what to say. He froze and leaned back to get a better look at her face.

"It's a little late to play the Maiden, now, little bird." He sounded frustrated, the desire in his eyes making the grey appear black.

"Sandor I, I wanted to tell you- I've never...I mean, I- Maiden. I'm still a maiden." She stumbled over her words, unable to gauge his reaction in the dark.

...

_Seven Hells! She can't be! _Sandor could only stare at her. She said she's still a maiden. _How can a woman thrice married still be a maiden?_ Sandor's first reaction was that she was mocking him, japing at his expense. _Why would she say that?_

"I just, I thought I'd tell you to be gentle with me, Sandor," she was saying, but the blood rushing to his ears drowned out her voice. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. S_he's a maiden. Could it be true? For fuck's sake, why didn't she tell me before?_ He knew she had no reason to tell him, so he abandoned that question as quick as it came to him. He could feel her crawl towards him, and a second later he felt her hand on his shoulder. The other hand she placed on his other shoulder and he froze when she pressed her breasts to his back, twining her arms around his chest in some sort of hug.

"Don't be angry with me. If I knew you would react like this I would never have told you," she whispered in the stub that used to be his ear. His cock stirred at the lack of disgust she felt for him and when she kissed the molten mess that was his ear, his resolve broke completely. _They never had her, _he thought! She had protected herself, she kept herself safe for... For what?_ To give her maidenhead to me? _Sandor marvelled at his little bird, his heart working overtime at the thought of being her first._ Her only._

Twisting around, Sandor planted his fists firmly into the mattress either side of Sansa as she fell back.

"Is this what you want?" He growled, and the silly little bird nodded. "You won't regret this?" He asked again, for reassurance, and Sansa smiled before pulling his head down for another kiss.

"Never," she said against his partially burned lips, and Sandor broke. Trailing kisses from the corner of her mouth to down her neck, he grabbed one of her breasts before bringing his mouth down on the other. He pinched her nipple and she gasped, making pretty little sounds as he sucked her into his mouth. _I will make you sing, little bird_, he thought. _For me and me alone._ He wondered what he had done to deserve her and who he should thank for bringing her to him unbroken, but he found the only thing he could worship was his little bird. The silly little thing was moaning his name and Sandor loved her a little more every time she whimpered at his touch. His hand snaked down to her mound and this time she didn't stop him. He parted her folds, the wetness coating his fingers instantly and he chuckled at her brazen attempt to hurry him up as she lifted her hips into his hand.

"We have all the time in the world, little bird." He said, though she just tutted and thrust forward again.

"I want you _NOW_. Not tomorrow, Sandor!" She said and he laughed. _She really does want me._ Sliding down her body, licking and biting his way down, he nuzzled the v between her legs.

"Fuck, your cunt..." He couldn't talk as she opened her legs wider and pressed herself against his mouth.

"That's the idea," she whispered and he laughed into her cunt, the vibrations setting her off as she moaned long and deep. He licked her then in earnest, listening to the sweet little whimpers coming from her sweet little mouth, her hips bucking against his face. He inhaled her scent, a scent that was undeniable Sansa. _Seven hell's, she even smells fucking beautiful,_ he thought, inserting a finger into her opening that caused his Sansa to twist in the bed. He twisted his finger with her, delighted at the wetness and warmth that came from her_. All for me, _he thought, chest swelling with pride.

"Sandor, there!" She let out a strangled scream as he stroked her from the inside and licked her on the outside simultaneously, his tongue and finger rhythmically raising her up. He keeps at it as her breath becomes ragged and her whimpers more desperate, calling out his name, the God's, and his again. _Always his._ Sandor smiles and draws the little nub into his mouth, drawing a keening scream from Sansa. She yells out, writhing underneath his mouth as her cunt contracts around his finger. He stays with her till she flops back down onto the bed, seeming to sink into the mattress as the sensations of her peak fade away.

He lies back next to her and she opens her eyes, smiling into his face. Sandor knows he'll never give her up, not for anything, and when she pulls on his shoulder to climb on top of her, he knows she'll stay with him forever. Her legs fall open for him and he kisses her deep and positions the head of his cock at her entrance. He breaks the kiss and looks down at his little bird, wet and willing for him. _Only him._ His heart might burst with happiness, though some small part of him hates himself from taking this away from her. She nods and he knows it's either now or never. Nudging the head of his cock inside her was easy; she was dripping wet for him but when he feels the tiny film of skin, his heart nearly breaks in two.

"This is going to hurt, little bird," he says, his voice strained at the effort of not just ripping through her and fucking her like the dog he is. _She deserves better. She deserves someone gentle_.

"I know. I trust you," she replies, her voice surprisingly steady, and with that, Sandor pushes forward, hard and fast to get it over with as quick as possible. He feels the skin break and Sansa flinches, freezing underneath his touch.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sansa. It will get better," he promises, ready to burst at her tightness. _Fuck, the whores never felt this good_, he thinks, though he'll never tell Sansa that. After giving her a moment to adjust to his intrusion, he starts moving, thankful for everything that has happened over the course of his life that had led him to Sansa. Pumping in and out in fluid movements, Sandor can feel the little bird respond, looking him in the face and sighing with fucking pleasure, her earlier discomfort forgotten. His heart strained as much as his cock did, so he kisses her and pumps harder and faster, Sansa's moans becoming more frequent as he does so. She tilts her hips up to meet his and he hit a spot she particularly enjoyed as she screamed his name.

"Sandor- there! Oh God's, Don't stop, never stop!" She begs for him to keep going and Sandor can do nothing but obey, entering her at the exact angle she liked.

"Never, little bird. I'll never stop!" His own breathing has grown ragged and laboured, but he's desperate for Sansa to peak with him, so he holds back, though he's not sure how much longer he'll last.

"Sandor, there- yes! I love you Sandor, I love you I love you I love-" and her declarations of love are cut off when she screams her release, a scream that undoes Sandor completely as her cunt squeezes the life out of his cock. He pumped into her once more before spending his seed inside her, grunting as his release claims him. He collapses on top of her, both panting as she pulls him close, running her hands up and down his back.

"I love you," she whispers, trailing little kisses on his shoulder. He wants to tell her how much he loved her, too. How she made his life mean something, again. He wants to tell her that she's his first, too. The first time he made love. The first time he has loved anyone. Only a strangled 'Sansa' escapes his lips and he can feel her smile against his shoulder, her grip around his back tightening.

"I know, Sandor. I know." And Sandor knows she understands.

...

When Sansa woke up, the room was quiet and still awash in shadows, but she could sense something was amiss. She lay perfectly still and listened carefully, hearing her own thundering heartbeat, Sandor's rumbling snores and something else, too. Breathing. Someone else was in the room. Sansa reached underneath her pillow, pulling out one of her knives, silently thanking the God's she had remembered to wake up earlier to put one of her daggers underneath her pillow. She had developed the habit in the Eyrie and even though she didn't need it with Sandor around, the habit stayed with her. Listening intently to the shallow breathing coming from the dark, Sansa clutched the dagger to her chest, ready for when the attack came. She would protect herself, but most importantly, she will ensure no harm comes to Sandor. _Not after everything_. The sudden sound of the floorboard creaking meant the person was on the move, the protesting wood under their feet signalling their location. Sansa held her breath, staring out into the darkness, willing to make a shape out of the void. The floorboards creaked again, and again. Sansa judged they must've come in through the window as the sounds came from her right. The shutters were closed, preventing any form of light spilling in. Sansa deliberately moved positions, sighing sleepily as though in a slumber, though she surreptitiously shook Sandor's arm off her. Free to move as she was, she waited till the sound of the floorboards was close enough before swinging her legs onto the floor and throwing herself against the attacker. He, for Sansa assumed it was a man, was smaller than her and couldn't have been older than 14. He was short and Sansa easily overpowered him, his weapon falling to the floor with a light clatter. Sansa briefly wondered what sort of weapon made such a noise, so light yet it wasn't small like her dagger, before the boy slapped her hard across the face, and then proceeded to pull her hair. Sansa, with her height, was at an advantage and sunk her knee into his guts, and he yelped, the noise waking Sandor.

"Sansa! What it the Seven Hell's is going on?" He all but roared into the darkness as Sansa managed to pin the boy to the ground, knife to his throat.

"Little bird- TALK TO ME!" She heard him push himself off the bed and flounder around on the other side of the room, hitting the edge of the bed and cursing loudly.

"Sandor, I'm fine. Just open the shutters, would you?" Sansa said, attempting to keep her voice steady. _You could've died. He could've died, tonight_. "I found this young man skulking in our room," she added, digging her knee into the offender's side. Sandor threw open the shutters, washing the room in a grey light, revealing the little boy struggling beneath her weight. Sansa recognised him as the boy from the riverbank.

"He was by the river, Sandor. He was looking at you, reaching for something. He must've followed us here." Sandor stalked forward and before he could grab the boy, Sansa held her hand out to stop him. She looked at the boy- _really looked,_ and-

_No, it can't be!_ Sansa scrambled off him, her, whoever it was, and yelled out.

"What, what is it? Did he hurt you?" Sandor asked, worry staining his voice, but fell quiet when he saw. The boy pushed himself up, holding the skinny little sword he had dropped earlier.

"_Not yet, Hound_. I came to finish what Dondarrion started," she threatened, and Sandor only laughed. He laughed and hooted and slapped his knee, before wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. The intruder looked confused but only had eyes for Sandor. _Not one glance was spared for Sansa._

"The little wolf-bitch! I see you're excited to see me, but I do think common courtesy states you greet your sister first." He laughed again, but Sansa could neither laugh nor cry. All she could do was stare at the boy- _no, girl,_ she had grown up with and watch the recognition sink into her eyes.

"Sansa?"

"Arya!"


	23. Chapter 23

**I'm sorry this took so long. After the 'climax' of the last chapter (_Arya_, not the other business) I was hit with a major case of Writer's Constipation, in which I wasn't writing shit. But then, last night just as I was about to fall asleep, it hit me like creative diarreah and I just had to get it down before I lost it all. Thus, this installment. Enjoy!**

She was gone before Sansa could say anything other than cry her name in a strangled voice. _Arya!_ The girl who had once been Sansa's sister dropped her little sword, before turning on her feet, crossing the room and jumping from the window. Sansa followed her in a flash and leaned over the windowsill, to see her sister land on her feet, _quick as a cat_, and run off into the dark.

"Arya!" Sansa yelled again, hoping it would make her turn around. Hoping it would make her come back. Hoping it would make everything better again. It didn't, and Arya never turned around. Sansa heard her sister's footsteps retreat into the night and a sob escaped from her mouth. It was followed by another and before Sansa knew, fat tears slid down her cheeks and fell into the street below her, on the spot her sister had landed in her attempt to get away from her. She felt Sandor move to stand behind her, and his hand rested heavily on her shoulder, before pulling her back from the window into his arms.

"Ssshh, little bird. It's alright," he mumbled, and Sansa wept into his broad chest, his skin wet from her tears and getting wetter still. Sansa thought about her time with her sister, and the long time without her. They had never been close, and Sansa regretted all the hurtful things she had ever said to Arya. _It's all my faul_t, she thought. _If I had only been nicer to her, shown her some kindness, she would not have run from me today. _Her heart felt as though it broke all over again. _It's my fault._

Sandor comforted her best he could, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head while whispering encouraging words to her.

"We will find her, Sansa. We will bring her home. Don't you worry about that, little bird; I will make sure of it." He repeated the words over and over again, but Sansa didn't know how he could make sure of it. _She had run! She doesn't want to see me, _she realised, and fresh tears clouded her eyes. She wasn't sure how long they had stood in each other's arms, with only the moon to witness Sansa's heartbreak, but Sandor eventually pulled away and pulled her towards the bed.

"Go to sleep, Sansa. This will all look better in the morning." He said softly, pulling the covers back so she could crawl under. Sansa did as he said and got into the bed, though she knew sleep would not come for her tonight. Reaching over to where Sandor lay, she pulled him towards her, lifting her face from her pillow to bring her lips to his. She sought comfort in his touch, and he obliged, putting his arm around her as though to shield her from more pain. She opened her mouth underneath his and felt his tongue dart in, consuming her whole. Sansa wanted him to have her, consume her, so no part of her was left. She was tired of the world, tired of her life and but mostly she was tired of the pain that so frequently seemed to find her. Sansa moaned at his touch and Sandor pulled her tighter against him. Sansa's hands found themselves buried in his hair and she pulled him closer. They lay there for a while, just kissing and holding each other, but Sansa wanted more. There was an emptiness inside her that she couldn't stand, and was hoping Sandor would make it go away. _She wanted everything to just go away._ As though Sandor sensed what she needed, he broke away from her kiss and leaned back before grasping the fabric of her dress in his hands and pulling it over her head. Sansa wiggled out, raising her hips to release the dress from beneath her before bringing her own hands to fumble at his smallclothes. He kicked them off, and Sansa lay back down, pulling him on top of her. Sandor kissed her again before trailing open-mouthed kisses down her neck and on her clavicle. Sansa raised her hips, twisting towards him so she was flush against his own hardened manhood. Sandor understood and crawled over her, kneeling between her thighs. He bent down and sucked on one of her breasts before moving up and kissing her on the mouth again, his elbows carrying his weight on either side of her head. He looked down at her and Sansa stared into his eyes, flashing grey meeting sad blue ones.

"I'm sorry," he said, and Sansa knew he meant about Arya. She fought back tears, biting on her lip before nodding her head.

"Make me forget, Sandor."

He needed no more encouragement. With one sure dip of his hips, he was buried deep inside her. Sansa yelled out, the pleasure riding through her body from her central spot, though it was tinged with pain. Sansa embraced the physical pain, preferring it to the pain in her heart. She clasped onto Sandor's shoulders and brought her legs up, hooking her ankles around his buttocks, pulling him deeper inside her. Dropping a kiss onto her lips, Sandor adjusted his weight on his arms and began to move in painfully slow strokes.

"Sandor," Sansa sighed, awash in the sensations his movements brought to her. But she wanted the pain with the pleasure.

"Sandor, I want- I want you to go faster," she said, hoping he would pull her hair or bite her; anything to make her forget. Sandor chuckled but he did as she asked, pulling out and plunging back in as deep as he would go before pumping in and out with a renewed vigour. Sansa could feel the heat spread throughout her body. She moaned when he plunged in again, grateful for the slight twinges of pain. She didn't want to remember the rejection and wanted more than anything for Sandor to chase away the sadness that had settled deep in her bones. Sandor grabbed one of her legs and brought it forward to hook the back of her knee around his shoulder and sunk in her again, and this time Sansa screamed. He repeated his assault on her body and Sansa could do nothing but feel. She felt the building heat low in her abdomen with each of his strokes. She felt his tongue in her mouth and the soft skin of his back beneath her hands. She felt his hair swing against her face with ever dip into her body and the mounting pleasure just waiting to be released. She feels alive again, hot, sweaty and in the arms of the man she loved. Sansa felt alive and never more so than when she peaked hard, screaming her release into Sandor's mouth, her cries of pleasure soon joined by his own grunts. Sansa felt him spill his seed in her, the warmth seeping through her and into her bones. _Thank you,_ Sansa thought, smiling into the darkness as Sandor rolled off her and threw an arm over her belly, nestling his face into her neck.

"You alright, little bird?" He asked into her hair and Sansa turned to face him.

"Yes, Sandor." Turning into his heat, she curled up into him, her knees pulled up against her chest. Sandor moves to curl up around her, and when they're done, Sansa is completely enveloped by the sheer size of him.

"It will be better in the morning," he promises once more, kissing the top of her head. _This time, Sansa believes him._

_He was right, of course_, Sansa thought as she splashed water onto her face. _Things did look better in the morning._ Sansa had woken just past dawn, pulling on her smallclothes and dress from last night before sending for some fresh water for the basin and food to break their fast with. When the maid brought in the tray of food and the bucket of water, her eyes automatically fell to the coin on the floor. Sansa's eyes followed the maids and she noticed the coin, lying on the spot where she and Arya had fought the night before. _It must've fell from Arya's pocket_, she thought, scooping down to pick it up. Sansa immediately knew this wasn't a normal coin. For one, it was iron. Sansa knew there was no such thing as iron coins so instead of pay the maid with that coin, she rifled through Sandor's pockets and pulled out some silvers to pay the maid with. She left and Sansa filled the basin from the bucket, before proceeding to wash her mouth and her face. When she was done, Sansa studied the coin some more. It had a head imprinted on both sides, though it was faded with age, and words decorated the edges_. Valar Dohaeris_, she read on one side, before turning it over and reading _Valar Morghulis_. Sansa whispered the words out loud, running her thumb over the face of the coin before tucking it away into her sleeve.

"What was that?" Sandor groaned, rolling over to face her. He stretched and groaned before sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Sansa picked up a cup of ale and walked over to him.

"Oh, nothing. I was just, thinking." She said, kissing him lightly on the lips before handing him the drink. He brought the cup to his lips and swallowed deeply.

"Thinking about what?" Sansa turned away from him, running her hands through her hair in a last-ditch attempt to make it look presentable. Gazing into the looking glass, she saw Sandor look at her through it, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. _Does he know I'm up to something?_

"Just, I'd like to... pray. I mean, yes, I'd like to visit the sept." She mumbled, turning around to face him again. He stared at her for a moment before pushing off the bed and walking towards the bucket and dipping his cup into the water before washing his mouth out. He washed his face quickly before making his way to the breakfast she had ordered.

"The sept?" He finally said, and Sansa knew how ridiculous her excuse was. She hadn't prayed for years after she gave up on the Gods when Sweetrobin died. _But he couldn't know that, could he._

"Yes, I'd like to pray to them for Arya's return." She shrugged, pulling a chair out and sitting down across from Sandor. His eyes were still suspicious but he seemed to let go of his doubts.

"Would you like me to come with you?" He asked, taking a bite from an apple. Sansa nibbled on an egg and her eyes widened in surprise.

"You want to... Pray?" She asked incredulous. _When did he turn devout?_ Sandor laid her fears at rest when he laughed.

"Fuck no, I'm not praying. I just thought you might like me to go with you." Sansa laughed nervously, before shaking her head.

"I'm fine, Sandor. You go on ahead to the palace before me. I won't be long." She said, hoping he would accept. _He can't come with me_, she thought. _Arya will hate me even more._ Sandor only shrugged.

"Fine. I would come with you to protect you but you clearly don't need me." Sansa thought he sounded hurt, which only made her smile.

"Of course I need you, Sandor. I just, I wouldn't want you to get bored." Sandor only grunted in reply, biting another large piece off the apple.

"Sandor."

"Hmm?" He said, mouth full with fruit. Sansa smiled a shaky smile and clasped her hands in her lap.

"Thank you. For last night, I mean." Sandor almost choked on his apple, the cough that ensued was so violent! Before he could say anything, however, Sansa stood up and quickly kissed him on the mouth, tasting the juices from the apple on her lip.

"I won't be long. You go on ahead to the palace, as I said- I'll meet you there, my love." She was gone before he could bid her goodbye, or even ask her what was wrapped inside the shawl she carried under her arm.

The streets were littered with the refuse of last nights celebrations. Wineskins decorated the pavement and cats and dogs both huddled over discarded food. Sansa was surprised that the same streets that looked so breathtaking last night could look so desolate in the bright sun, but shook the thought away, fingering the well-worn coin. She read the words on the iron, wondering what sort of coin it was and why Arya was carrying it. She was well acquainted with the Bravoosi currency to know that this was not worth a gnat, yet Arya carried it all the same. Sansa spotted a woman setting up a market stall and walked over to her, smiling her most disarming smile in the process.

"I beg your pardon," Sansa started, but the lady held her hand up, cutting her off. Sansa choked back on her words and watched as the woman yelled in an indistinguishable language to someone behind her. A man emerged from behind the stall, carrying a knife dripping blood. Sansa's hand automatically reached for her sleeve, but to her surprise, the man only smiled at her, revealing two gold teeth.

"The woman does not speak your tongue, so a man shall help you." He said this while wiping the blood from his knife onto his apron, and Sansa watched, transfixed, as the red smears appeared on the white of the fabric. She remembered a time where the same smears would appear when she dabbed at her face with a handkerchief, _Sandor's handkerchief_, as the blows she suffered at the hands of Ser Meryn and Ser Boros left her with bloody cuts and bruises. The man coughed and Sansa looked up, reddening slightly under his bemused expression.

"Excuse me, ser. I was wondering, could you tell me what this is?" She held her hand out, palm facing up to show the iron coin that lay flat against her hand. The man looked down, then looked back up to her.

"It says Valar Morghulis," she explained, though she didn't know why. _Surely he knows better than I do._ The man kept silent but took the coin and turned it over between his fingers.

"Valar Dohearis. You seek the House of Black and White?" Sansa wasn't sure what she was looking for, only that she needed to find Arya, but she nodded her head anyway. The man nodded his in return, and pointed to his left.

"A girl will find the House of Black and White there. You will turn left when you have crossed the bridge. If you follow my instruction, you will find a bronze statute of the God of Liri, a big, ugly thing..."

"A statute?" Sansa interrupted, wanting to commit it all to memory.

"A girl shall ignore the statute. Keep going forward, then right again. A girl will face a hundred steps, more or less. Perhaps less. Nevermind the steps, also, they are not important. The door at the top of the steps is, for that is the door leading into the House of Black and White." He tossed the coin back to her and turned abruptly, leaving Sansa bewildered and slightly confused. _Perhaps the old woman would've made more sense,_ she thought, smiling as she turned into the direction he had pointed to. Sansa wasn't sure what to make of his instructions and was tempted to ask someone else when she saw the bridge. _Perhaps he made a little more sense than I give him credit for_, she thought as she turned the street. She spotted the statute and giggled at the man's accurate description of the thing. _Big and ugly,_ he had said, and Sansa agreed. It showed a bull standing on his hind legs, his belly protruding far from his body, casting a considerable shadow underneath him. Sansa walked past it- _forward_, he had said- and silently congratulated herself on her ability to follow a set of maniacal sounding directions. When she found herself facing the step, which where thankfully not even close to one hundred in their number, she sent a prayer to the Gods, hoping this would be where she would find her sister.

Pushing open the heavy wooden doors, Sansa peeked inside and was faced with a chilling darkness. She slid in-between the crack of the door and letting it fall shut behind her with an eerie creek. Peering into the darkness, she could discern nothing but a row of braziers on the far end, their light not reaching the entire hall. She heard a scuffling sound to her close to her left before she heard, rather than felt the crack of the stick against her cheek.

"Ow!" She yelled out, moving to her right and untangling Arya's sword from its makeshift scabbard of her scarf. Raising it in front of her, she listened out for the scuffling noise, wondering who would hit someone they didn't even know. _Or perhaps they did know me?_

"Arya?" She asked shakily into the darkness, but heard no reply. "Arya!" She tried again, hoping her sister would just answer her. This time, she heard a chuckle which she guessed belonged to a man. _An old man, judging from its croaky tone._

"What do you want from me?" Sansa asked. "And WHY are you hitting me?" She added when she felt the stick against the back of her thighs, twirling around and slashing with the sword. The old man only cackled some more. Sansa slowly and as silently as she could muster, moved to her left again, hoping her shallow breaths wouldn't give her away.

"This girl you seek, Arya, is not here. Not anymore." She heard the voice in the darkness.

"Don't lie to me, old man. ARYA!" Sansa yelled her sister's name as loud as she could, hearing her own voice echo back at her. _Arya, Arya, Arya..._

"I do not tell a lie." The voice said again, and when he swung his stick again, at her chest this time, Sansa caught it. Pulling it towards her, she felt the old man's weight come with it. When she judged he was near enough, she pulled the stick upwards and in a smooth motion kicked his feet out from under him, hearing him fall to the ground with a loud thud. _Thud, thud, thud,_ the echo replied. Sansa lowered Arya's sword till she felt his body underneath its sharp point, pressing it a little into him for good measure. The old man cackled and suddenly the room was drowned in light. Sansa blinked against the sudden illumination, looking around her at the bare hall before turning her gaze down to the old man beneath her sword.

"Where is Arya?" She asked, moving the sword point from where it rested against his shoulder to directly above his heart, applying pressure.

"Arya does not exist, girl." The man gasped back at her. Sansa heard another scuffling sound and turned to see a small girl, or woman –judging from her face, walk towards them.

"Come no closer," Sansa said through gritted teeth, wondering how she came to be in this situation. _Arya..._ The girl stopped in her tracks, though her face showed no emotion whatsoever. It unnerved Sansa and she looked back down at the old man. _What am I doing?_

Moving the sword from her right hand to her left, she offered the old man an arm, pulling him up on his feet. He was surprisingly light and agile, springing up as a man a quarter his age might've done.

"My sister, Arya, are you sure she's not here?" Sansa asked the old man, darting looks between him and the woman in the child's body.

"Arya, no. She is not here. _No one_ is here," he replied, chuckling. He started moving towards the far end, his soft slipper-like shoes making the soft scuffling noise against the floor. The woman followed and Sansa felt she had no choice but to go with them. She had a feeling he knew more than he was letting on, and Sansa was determined to find her sister_. If only I can talk to her_, she thought. The old man led them into a big room, dark as everywhere else, though the braziers cast an eerie light across the place. To the right, Sansa saw a pool of water, though she couldn't be sure as the liquid looked black as the night. _Blood!_ The thought comes to her mind unbidden and Sansa shook her head in an attempt to rid herself of it. _Surely it can't be,_ she thought. Just as they were about to leave the room with the pool, a small figure appeared carrying a tray of goblets. Her hair was shoulder-length and she was dressed in a black and white robe, though Sansa recognised the look of surprise the girl wore when she saw her.

"Arya!" Running forward, Sansa pushed the old man out of the way and enveloped Arya in a tight hug, sending the tray flying. Arya, however, stood lifeless as Sansa covered her face in loud kisses. The old man chuckled again and Sansa let go of her sister.

"What is it, old man?" Sansa asked, turning towards him and making sure her body was positioned between his and Arya's.

"That is not Arya," he said, chuckling some more_. Gods, I wish I could wipe that smile off his face. _

"What do you mean, this isn't Arya? I know my own sister, old man," Sansa replied petulantly, turning back around to look at Arya. Her sister made no move, not even a smile, and Sansa felt her own smile slip off her face.

"Arya?" No response. "Arya, talk to me. It's me, Sansa. ARYA!" A wild sense of panic gripped at Sansa's heart. _Does she not recognise me? But she knew me last night! Surely she must know me..._

"Arya, _WHY WON'T YOU TALK TO ME_," Sansa said, and before she knew it, her hand flew out on its on accord and slapped Arya across the face.

"YOU STUPID BITCH!" Arya jumped on Sansa, pulling her hair and scratching at her face, all the while attempting to bite her. _That's more like it._ Sansa could only laugh. _Her sister was back!_ Arya stopped hitting her and seemed to remember where she was, because she let go as suddenly as their fight started and stood up, dropping her hands by her side and resuming her blank expression.

"It's best you leave," the old man cut in, watching Sansa as she dusted herself off.

"What have you done to her? What have you done to my sister?" Sansa rounded on him, pulling Arya's little sword from the folds of the scarf and pointing at the man's throat. "What have you done to my sister?" She asked, anger coursing through her veins.

"She is not your sister, girl." _He sounds oddly calm for a man who's about to die,_ Sansa smirked.

"She's not, huh? Who is she then, if not Lady Arya, of House Stark of Winterfell?" Sansa stressed her name and titles, hoping it would remind her sister of who she was. The man looked past Sansa and addressed Arya.

"Tell her who you are, child." He said, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

"No one." The voice was soft and devoid of any emotion, just a blank voice to fit her blank face. Sansa twirled around to face her.

"No one? YOU ARE NOT 'NO ONE'! Arya, I know you remember me. I know it. Won't you come with me, Arya? We can go back home. Mother is gone, and so are Robb and our brothers, but we'll have each other, won't we? Please come with me, Arya? Aren't you tired of being alone?" Sansa was pleading now, and embarrassed at her own whiny voice but desperation had set in. _What have they done to her? _Arya didn't respond to any of Sansa's pleading.

"Arya? Remember what father used to say? _'When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives'._ Remember that, Arya? We can be a pack again, you and I. We're Starks of Winterfell. We are wolves, Arya. _Wolves!_ Not 'no ones' and nobodies!" She came close to Arya's face then, looking into those grey eyes that were so much like their father's. Arya had gotten taller, yet she was still a lot shorter than Sansa, who had to lean down a little to be at eye-level with her sister. She saw a flash of something in Arya's eyes, but it was gone before she could say what it was.

"You should go now, girl," the old man said, pulling Sansa away from Arya. She allowed him to guide her away, knowing that she had done all she could to get her sister to come with her_. Perhaps she had forgotten?_ Sansa had already started to make excuses, but she knew, as she let the man drag her away, that the matter was simple; _she just didn't love you anymore._ Sansa's heart broke all over again, and tears threatened to spill from her eyes. _Not here_, she begged herself. _Not yet_. They were near the door when Sansa heard the scuffling again.

"Wait!"

Sansa turned around and saw Arya standing across from her, the expression on her face not the blank one from earlier but a mask of sadness and regret.

"We would go home? You and I?" Arya asked, and Sansa almost burst with happiness.

"Yes." She said, not wanting to mention Ser Jorah at this moment.

"You are a bad liar, Sansa. Don't lie to me." Arya said, and a hardness had crept into her voice. Sansa took a deep breath and blurted it out.

"Jorah Mormont holds Winterfell, Arya, but I will take it back. For us." Arya just looked at her for a long moment, her face impassive and unreadable. _What did they do to you?_

"How?" Sansa was glad for the question, because it meant Arya wanted this. Arya wanted to go home, and Sansa would do anything to make it happen. But marry Ser Jorah? _There must be another way._

"Fire and Blood, Arya. The Queen took what was rightfully hers with Fire and Blood. I will do the same. Winterfell is in our veins, it is what we know. I will find a way, Arya, there is always a way." She saw Arya consider her words, and Sansa's spirit soared. She was vaguely aware of the old man who was watching them with a keen eye, but she paid no attention to him.

"You would fight with the Queen for Winterfell?" Arya asked, a hint of surprise in her voice and Sansa smiled to find it there. _She doesn't know what I have become, either. Time has changed us both. _

"Yes," Sansa answered truthfully, because she would. She would go to war with the world to have even a part of her family back.

"She won't take that lying down, _stupid_." Sansa smiled at the first sign of the old Arya. _Who would've known I'd be so happy to be called 'stupid'?_

"No, she won't. She took what was owed to her with Fire and Blood, but Winter is Coming. Winter is always coming, little sister, and winter will come for her if she refuses to grant us our birth home. But the lone wolf dies, Arya, we need to be a pack."

Sansa held her hand out for her little sister, fervently praying that she would take it and come with him. When Sansa heard the scuffling again, she opened her eyes, not knowing when she had shut them. Arya stood before her with a small and hesitant smile on her face.

"A pack," she whispered, before taking her sister's hand. Sansa smiled back at her and reached for her belt and the coin tucked inside it. Turning, she flipped the coin towards the old man who was staring at them with his mouth hanging open. The coin fell to the floor with a soft clatter as Sansa pushed the door open and led her sister home. _The pack survives._


	24. Chapter 24

**Sorry for the delay. I just didn't know how to go about this _reunion_, so I wrote the next chapter before this one. Obviously I couldn't post that one till this was done so it sort of motivated me to get this one up and posted. Hopefully it wont disappoint.**

* * *

"This will do fine." Sansa pulled Arya into the first inn they encountered. Pushing the heavy door open, a stale scent of wine and sweat accosted her senses, but the establishment seemed reputable enough. Sansa led them to a private table in the back, hidden in a veil of shadows. Sitting down, she gestured for a reluctant Arya to do the same.

"What are we doing here?" Arya asked, looking at the sullen patrons suspiciously. Only two other tables were occupied at this time of day, and though they were quite a distance from their own, Arya seemed uncomfortable.

"We need to talk, Arya. Why else would I drag you here? I haven't developed a taste for wine, if that's what you're wondering?" Sansa laughed nervously to ease her sister's tension. She knew the thought hadn't crossed Arya's mind; _nobody who knew me would ever think that I would have. But that was the old me,_ she thought. _Arya doesn't know me anymore._ Sadness crept into her heart as she looked at the girl in front of her. Arya had grown quite beautiful, Sansa noticed. Their father had always said she resembled their aunt Lyanna, though Lyanna Stark was considered a great beauty. Sansa didn't see it then, but she saw it now. Arya's dark hair was long and thick, hanging down the sides of her face like curtains. Her eyes, which Sansa had once considered a boring shade of grey, were now breathtakingly stormy and bright. Sansa regretted the times she had called her sister 'ugly'; she now knew how wrong she had been.

"Talk? About what?" Arya hissed at her, leaning forward._ Does she regret coming with me already?_ Sansa sighed and leaned forward, too.

"You know, things. What happened to you, for example, after the- I mean, when it happened. In King's Landing. You disappeared. I thought you dead." Sansa tried to keep the accusing tone in her voice to a minimum. _You left while I stayed and suffered!_ She couldn't bring herself to say those words. It wasn't her fault. She was just a child. _As was I! _

"Oh, that. Nothing. Why are you with the Hound?" Arya seemed reluctant to answer, though she spat the question with such venom Sansa could do nothing but tell the truth.

"I love him." Arya gasped. Before she could say anything, a barmaid was at their side, talking in the guttural language Sansa didn't understand. To her surprise Arya answered smoothly, and the barmaid was gone as quick as she had arrived.

"You love him? We are talking about the Hound, right? You love _that_ brute?" _It seems she's not done with me_, Sansa thought, sighing again.

"Yes- I love him. And if you try to kill him again, Arya listen-" Arya rolled her eyes "-Listen! If you try to kill him again I will kill you myself." Arya laughed at this, and Sansa couldn't help but join in. "Perhaps I won't kill you, but Arya, I will come pretty close." This made Arya laugh even more.

"What do you know of killing?" Arya asked between fits of giggles.

"More than I would like," Sansa said quietly, and Arya's laughter stopped. They sat in silence for a moment, both reflecting on Sansa's words. _More than I would like._ Sansa was tired of killing. Tired of death and being the one to cause it.

"Me too." Sansa looked up into her sister's face and found a naked honesty there that she had not expected. Her heart broke for her little sister; a sadness that she knew would never go away. _We didn't deserve this_, Sansa thought_. We weren't made for killing. We were made for love and laughter and happiness. We were made for the stories._

"So what do you see in the Hound?" Arya asked after a while, and grunted in pain when Sansa kicked her under the table.

"The man has a name. It's Sandor; use it!" Sansa was aware she sounded suspiciously like her mother, and Arya must've heard it, too, for she amended her original question.

"If it please you. What do you see in Sandor?" She asked, the sarcasm in her voice clear as day. Sansa couldn't help but smile at her sister.

"He is a good man, Arya. He's strong and caring and honest. I know he's not handsome like the knights in the stories but I don't want a knight. In King's Landing, Joffry- what _they_ did to me. He cared for me even then. Could you please try to get along with him?"

"But he's a murderer! He killed Mycah!" Arya slammed her little fist down on the table in anger, and Sansa had to resist slamming her own into Arya's face. _She doesn't know him_, she said to herself.

"Arya, stop being such a child! We are all murderers! You yourself crept into a man's bedroom to kill him in his sleep. You think that makes you better than him? Because you kill to avenge a childhood friend? Arya, I have killed to avenge my friends," _Ramsay._ "Our father," _Littlefinger._ "Myself," _Harry._ "Does that make _me _better than him? We are all killers, Arya. You have to decide whether you want to stay one."

"I want him dead." _Gods, why is this girl so stubborn? _Sansa sighed again.

"You will not lay a finger on him, do you hear me? I am still your eldest sister and you _will_ obey me on this!" Sansa hit the table with her fist, making Arya reluctantly nod her head. Sansa sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. _This is how mother probably felt,_ she thought.

"I'm sorry, Arya. I just- surely you have loved someone before? You must understand where I am coming from," Sansa attempted to right the situation. She didn't want to constantly be at odds with her sister. She wanted to make up for lost time, to be her friend at last. Watching Arya squirm, Sansa smiled and grabbed her shoulder. "Ah, so you have!" She teased her sister, glad to have found some common ground that didn't involve death.

"No! Stupid!" Sansa laughed at Arya's vehemence.

"Who is he? Tell me!" Arya looked down at the table, and Sansa noted her sister's blush with glee.

"Just some boy. A stupid blacksmith's apprentice. He's probably dead now. I met him in King's Landing. We travelled together for a while before..." Arya looked up and looked Sansa in the eyes, a fierce glint of anger in darkening the already stormy grey. _Like Sandor's,_ Sansa thought. "...Before Sandor kidnapped me!" Sansa only laughed at that. "Why are you laughing? He wanted to ransom me to mother and Robb. We got as far as the Twins but never made it to them, in the end. It was when, when they-"

"-I know." Sansa cut her off, sensing her sister's discomfort. _It was when the Frey's violated the laws of Guest right and murdered our mother and brother in cold blood._

"You know?" Arya seemed bewildered.

"Of course I know, Arya. And I also recall he saved your life, that night. He told me how he had to stop you from running into the massacre using... _regrettable_ methods. But you are alive and well, are you not?"

"Yes. But-" Arya wanted to protest, but Sansa interrupted, again.

"He also told me how it was you two came to part ways. That too, was regrettable. Though I must thank you for what you did, I suppose. Had you have done what he asked... I don't think I'd be here, myself. Remember what I told you about packs? He became my pack, of sorts. He cares about me, which means he cares about you, too, in a way. You are my family which makes you his family. And sometimes we may not like our family, but we care about them, still. _Always._ He's a good man, Arya. Good and honest, if only you'd give him a chance."

"No." The set in Arya's jaws told Sansa she would not change her mind on this. _Gods, she really is stubborn. How did mother deal with her all those years?_

"Perhaps you can promise not to kill him?" Sansa smiled, hoping this agreement would be favourable to Arya. To her delight, she saw the beginnings of a smile forming on her sister's lips.

"Okay," Arya said through her smile and Sansa clapped her hands in joy. _It's a start,_ she thought. Arya called over the barmaid and ordered them drinks. The woman returned with two cups of ale, which the girls nursed silently for a few minutes.

"Do you really plan on taking back Winterfell?" Arya asked, setting her cup back down after gulping from it thirstily. _She drinks like Sandor,_ Sansa noted.

"What?"

"Winterfell, stupid! Do you really plan on taking it back?" Sansa was silent for a moment.

"Yes, of course." The answer was truthful, and Arya must've seen that as she nodded in a satisfied manner. Then doubt clouded her eyes as she asked the question Sansa was asking herself.

"How?"

_Yes, how?_ The question had been in the back of Sansa's mind ever since she promised Arya that she would win back their ancestral home. But how? Sansa considered her options for a moment, before promptly coming to a blank.

"Don't you worry about that. I said I will, didn't I? You have to trust me." That silenced Arya for another couple of minutes but the reprieve didn't last long.

"With an army?" Sansa looked into the excitement written across Arya's face and decided she would do anything she could to avoid war. _Another_ war. The war had taken her mother and brothers, she could not lose Sandor or Gods forbid, Arya, too. Sansa's mind wandered back to the present where she could hear seagulls screeching their presence. _Birds_, she thought, though she couldn't shake the feeling there was something she had to remember about them. 'You're alright now, Little Bird.' No_, something else._ The birds carried on singing their loud song, similar to the birds in King's Landing who used to mock her with their freedom. Mock... _Mockingbird!_ 'Sometimes the best way to baffle them is to make moves that have no purpose... Remember that, Sansa, when you come to play... the game of thrones.'

"No. We won't need an army, Arya. It won't have to come to that."


	25. Chapter 25

'_Instil doubt in their hearts, Alayne, and they are yours.'_

The knock on the door startled Sansa, who had been sitting at her desk in the solar. Pushing away from the table, she idly wondered what it was Arya wanted this time, and why she felt she had to knock. Arya had been bursting through her door at regular intervals since their arrival at the manse a week ago. It almost seemed to Sansa as though she couldn't bear to stay away from her, though Sansa couldn't understand why. Arya had changed; she was harder now, yet somehow a shell of her former self. She had always been the stronger of the two, the fierce one, and the fighter amongst the Stark girls. But now they were at long last reunited, it seemed as though it was Sansa providing all the support. Just last night Arya had crept into Sansa's bedroom and lay on the bed beside her, falling asleep in her sister's arms. Sansa wasn't entirely sure what had happened to Arya in the time they had been apart, but didn't feel right to pry. Instead, she drew her little sister closer and spent the night thinking on how to make good on her promise. _I promised you Winterfell, Arya, and I would sooner die than go back on that promise._ Now, however, she stood up with a sigh, smoothing her dress in a mockery of her old self. _The other Sansa would've folded her hands demurely,_ she thought as she leaned on the desk with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Come in," she called when the door didn't open. A man pushed it open, stepping inside before announcing the Queen's arrival. Daenerys swept in wearing a violet chiffon dress that split down to her navel, gold buckles holding the fabric together on her shoulders and a gaudy belt of sapphires around her waist. The ever-present golden crown rested atop her elaborately braided hair, and Sansa recognised the formality in her presence. Pushing off the table, Sansa curtsied, allowing a mocking smile to play around he lips. _She knows,_ Sansa thought. _Or at the least she thinks she knows..._

"You Grace," Sansa started, straightening her back and looking the Queen in the eyes. _I will not go back on my promise. _Though she had toyed with the idea of returning to Westeros and raising an army, she quickly rid herself of the notion_. That would not be the way,_ she thought. The North would stay loyal to her, Sansa was sure, and though perhaps with a little convincing the Riverlands and the Vale, too, would stand by her; she knew the death-count would go into the hundred thousands. _There has been enough killing_, she thought. Her mind had then lingered on Petyr Baelish, and after suppressing a shiver of disgust, she came to consider the power he had. _He taught me well_. This is how she came to tell her handmaiden about her plans, knowing the way servants liked to talk among themselves. She also knew that it wouldn't be long after she leaked her plans that the Queen would pay her an official visit. Gone was the kindness from Daenerys' face. It had been replaced with a look of cold hatred, and Sansa smiled, feigning innocence. _Don't let her know your endgame._

"Lady Sansa," Daenerys began, straightening her own shoulders and only managing to make herself look smaller than she already was. Sansa smiled down at her from her height, knowing this would vex the Queen. _Feign innocence._

"Your Grace, how might I be of assistance?" Sansa interrupted the Queen, turning and picking up a stack of letters, shuffling idly before signing one and putting it back down with a smile. Sansa knew the Queen followed her every movement, yet refused to acknowledge her questioning look_. Let them wonder what your plans are, dear Alayne, for then they will be too distracted to watch what you are actually doing. _

"Lady Sansa, I have heard some troubling news. I wondered whether you might ease my mind by denying the slanderous lies I have been hearing." The words washed over Sansa as she folded a letter, before sealing it with grey wax. She briefly thought about how she would've preferred the direwolf sigil to be printed into the wax, but after studying the plain star and moons in the wax, she smiled and placed the sealed letter back on the desk with a flourish. Turning to look at the Queen over her shoulders, Sansa noticed the anger and confusion on Daenerys' face. _Good._

"Which lies do you refer to, Your Grace?" Sansa shot back, raising her eyebrow. She turned to her stack of letters, sealing another one with the grey wax before straightening to face the Queen once more. _This is just too easy,_ Sansa thought. The pale, silver haired Queen was gritting her teeth, her face an unhealthy shade of red in her anger.

"You know what it is I speak of, Lady Sansa! Now tell me, is there truth in it?" She spat out the question, spittle gathering in the corners of her mouth. Sansa watched the disintegration of the Queen's facade with disinterest, before allowing her mouth to split into a wide smile.

"Your Grace, surely you do not believe the idle chatter of servants? Me? Take over the Iron Throne?" Sansa laughed, before noting the hesitant smile tugging at Daenerys' lips. The sigh of relief was audible.

"Oh, Sansa! I thought- I really thought perhaps, but no. Of course I did not believe that!" The Queen rushed over to Sansa, offering her hands, which Sansa grasped in her own. They felt sweaty and hot to the touch, and Sansa gave them a slight squeeze.

"Think about it, Your Grace. What would I do on the Iron Throne? I have heard it said it is very uncomfortable," Sansa gushed, pasting a bright smile on her face. The Queen laughed.

"To be sure! I have to resist placing cushions on it to soften the feel of metal on my buttocks!" Sansa shrieked as though it was the funniest thing she had heard in a long time, before looking the Queen in the eye.

"Perhaps it's best you do, Your Grace. Perhaps it's best you throw it out completely. Being Queen with so many sharp knives at your back must be... unnerving, to say the least." The Queen's laughter died down immediately, and Sansa smiled once more before letting go of her hands and turning back to her letters.

"I'm terribly sorry, Your Grace. I have so much to do in so little time!" Sansa gave a titter of nervous laughter. _Let her wonder._ Gesturing at the pile of letters on her desk, she made an apologetic face. The Queen looked at the stack of letters suspiciously.

"Who are you writing to?" Sansa laughed again, before dismissing the question with a wave of her hands.

"I won't bother you with the tedious details. I am merely preparing for our return to Westeros." Sansa turned towards the letters, gathering them all up before turning back and holding them against her chest. _Doubt._ She noted with glee the troubled look on the young Queen's face. _She thinks I'm up to something, _Sansa thought. _This will be over sooner than I anticipated._

"I won't take up more of your time, Lady Sansa," the Queen said, gathering the folds of her skirt as they pooled on the floor. "I shall leave you to your writing. Will I see you at dinner?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Arya and I will be there."

"Very well," said the Queen, before turning to leave in the swirl of chiffon. Sansa watched her signal to the guard who had announced her arrival, and he held the door open for her.

"Your Grace!" Sansa called out, taking a couple steps closer. Daenerys turned to face her, an enquiring look her face.

"Lady Sansa?"

"I was wondering, perhaps you might tell me what has become of my uncle Edward Tully? Does he still hold Riverrun?" Sansa schooled her face into an expression of polite inquisitiveness, yet she knew the effect the question would have.

"And why were you wondering?" The Queen looked suspicious when she posed the question, the redness creeping back into her face. Sansa shrugged.

"Arya was wondering, and he is family, Your Grace. The only family we have left." Sansa looked down at her feet in a show of contrition, though she felt no such thing. Arya had wondered no such thing, but it was easier to let the Queen think she did. _Let doubt eat her up,_ she thought. A faint whisper of guilt gnawed at her stomach but she ignored the uncomfortable feeling. _For Arya,_ she thought. _For Winterfell._

"He holds Riverrun, still. Is that all?" The curt reply was exactly what Sansa had expected and known all along, so she smiled before making a show of shuffling through her papers.

"Thank you, Your Grace! My sister will be glad to hear he is alive and well." Sansa curtsied, spreading her dress with one hand as she clutched the letters with the other. The Queen nodded, but did not move. Sansa was aware of her eyes on her as she pretended to find the letter she was searching for, narrowing her eyes in mock concentration and read its contents. She was aware of the Queen's eyes as she rushed back to her desk and dripped the molten wax onto the letter to seal it. Only when she pressed the seal onto the wax did she hear the door shut behind the Queen. Taking the letters, Sansa walked over to the fireplace and dropped them all into the blazing fire, watching the paper curl up and blacken. Sansa had written nonsense onto the paper, filling the parchment with silly stories and strange drawings. They served one purpose, and one purpose alone. _Doubt._

_Always keep your foes confused. Instil doubt in their hearts, Alayne, and they are yours. Make them doubt you. Doubt your power. Doubt your influence. Eventually they will doubt themselves, and only then, my sweet daughter, will you win. Doubt is a disease, you see? It cripples men, breeds fear; a fear which kills faster than any poison. A seed of doubt is what killed John Arryn. It is what killed your father. Doubt, my Alayne, is a weapon sharper than any sword. You only have to know how to use it to your favour._

The words echoed in her mind as she sat back on her desk. A deep sense of shame racked her body. She was loath to put the lessons Petyr taught her into practise, but it had to be done. Watching the flickering of the candle, she thought about how this game would affect her friendship with Daenerys. _It will never be the same again,_ she thought, and felt regret at the realisation. But when her thoughts turned back to Arya, she found the loss of her friendship with the young Queen would be worth it in the end.

"The pack survives," she whispered into the empty solar. Bringing her fingers to her mouth and wetting the tips of her index finger and thumb, she brought her hand to hover over the candle. "Fire and Blood," Sansa said to the stifling emptiness, snuffing the candle out with a hiss. _Winter is Coming._


End file.
